What Lies Beneath
by Nicole Prince
Summary: She was Laelithra, a small child marked by Destiny. By chance, unhappy or not, she crossed paths with the legendary witcher, Geralt of Rivia. Pursued by an evil organization, how will they survive?   English. Chapter Seventeen coming September, 2
1. Chapter One

**Author's Disclaimer/Commentary:**The Witcher/Last Wish is copyrighted to Andrzej Sapkowski, translated by Danusia Stok, published by Victor Gollancz, a member of the Orion Publishing Group. The Witcher © 2007 CD Projekt Sp z.o.o. © 2007 Atari Europe. Marketed and distributed by Atari Europe S.A.S.U. Developed by CD Projekt RED Sp. z o.o. The Witcher is a registered trademark of CD Projekt Sp z.o.o. All rights reserved I have received no profit from this fanfic.

**Warnings: **Child Abuse, Language, Violence, Sexuality

**Reviews:**I love feedback to my stories. You can either post a review here. I let anonymous reviews. I always answer them if I can. You can find all reviews answered on my twitter account: /#!/DarkSaviorFic. :)

**Update: **This concludes Book 1 of What Lies Beneath. There will be alittle bit of a wait for Book 2. It will have it's own Fan Fiction URL. Thank you for your support and enjoying What Lies Beneath.

**Book One:**

**Chapter One**

_She was Laelithra of Vizima, a small child marked by Destiny. Her life was supposed to be simple. She was supposed to be married by the age of twelve, have children by the age of fourteen, and die old and toothless in her bed. Destiny was a fickle mistress. When a particularly powerful bruxa destroyed her father, she was set on the solitary path of the wanderer. By chance, unhappy or not, she crossed paths with the legendary witcher, Geralt of Rivia._

Rain fell in stinging sheets as the young girl walked along the road slowly. The young child was not exceptionally beautiful. Her platinum hair was cropped at her shoulders, unevenly layered. Because of a lice infection, the young girl had shaved her head completely before. The damp hair lay in plastered clumps against her oval face. It never did grow back right. Dark eyes stared out of her pale, malnourished complexion.

Deep forest crowded up to the the road on either side, casting long, reaching shadows. The road was less a road and more a dirt path with patches of grass springing up in the middle of it. Rain made the dirt sticky, grasping at anything that touched it. Once it held her feet, it would not let her go. She stumbled before she caught herself. The oozy mud splattered her dress, making the hem appear a drab brown.

She heard the birds chatter in the trees, and something scurrying underneath the underbrush. Fear did not assault the young child as she continued to walk. Occasionally, she would stop and shake her feet. The mud seemed to get deep into the holes of her tattered shoes. It would stick to her, refusing to let go, cold against any bit of exposed flesh it happened to find.

Stopping, she swore she heard a strange sound behind her. It was a distant plodding sound like a horse coming up the path, slowly. A fear lit into her soul. She remembered once a particularly wicked man stopped the young girl. He must have been in a particularly foul mood because he beat the child to an inch of her life and left her on the side of the road to die. Laelithra was a particularly resilient brat, and she mended. Perhaps, it was this thought that drove her into the woods as she peered nervously at the road in the direction of the mysterious sound.

Touching the trunk of a wide tree, she tried to push the uneasy feeling deep down inside her. Still, it spread its ebony tendrils to every corner of her being. Regardless, the young girl fearlessly listened to the sound of hoof-beats plodding inexorably closer to her position on the road. She did not know how long she stood there with her hand on the tree trunk listening ot the sound of the beast getting closer to her as terror consumed her.

Rain ran in rivulets down the sides of her face and trickled over the wolf's head pommel of the delicate silver sword strapped to her back. She felt the cold wetness penetrate deep into her skin, making her shiver. Crouching low and hiding amongst the underbrush, she watched the road in suspense, drawn tight like a spring. Not knowing what she was waiting for, she held her breath.

A dark mare moved slowly down the road into the Laelithra's view. The horse's delicate head swung from side to side, shaking the reins, her hooves sticking in the mud, making her steps difficult to take. The young girl could see the rain bead on the horse's coat and trickle down the mare's sides.

A lean man perched on top of the mare caught her attention instantly. She surmised that he must have been an older gentleman as white hair hung down over his face, blocking it from her view. Soon, she realized her mistake. Although deep creases lined his face, the man could not have been older than thirty. His lips were set in a thin line. A black coat was thrown over his shoulders, hiding the beige bandage wrapped around his neck. "Come now, Roach. If we move at this pace all day, we won't reach the temple for a few more days. You know, Nenneke has warm oats for you. She always does," he said quietly. His voice was neither pleasant nor disturbing. It was neutral, having a rumbling undertone.

The small horse snorted at the inflection in his voice. She lifted her foot higher with each step. It looked like she was prancing.

Laelithra's thighs burned from the crouching position she was in. Her eyes watched the man on the horse warily as she wondered what reason such a foul looking fellow would have for traveling the road. Surely, he was a bandit or worse. Perhaps, he was a rapist or murderer. She shifted to alleviate the pain in her legs and one of her knees creaked in protest. The sound seemed to echo in the forest.

He snapped his golden gaze to her direction. The young girl did not know any human who held eyes such as his. He held a weary look to him as he rose his hand in a friendly gesture. The metal studs on his dark brown gloves glinted. "Greetings."

She did not move, cursing silently. Laelithra did not want this strange man to notice her. Her dark eyes followed his movements sheepishly. Again, she wondered at his intent. Standing there, she looked like a surprised deer. Part of her wished to run away or to hide from the glint in his golden depths. Shifting on her other foot, she weighed the thoughts of flight versus fight in her head. His voice was not unpleasant to her, and she felt perplexed. Reaching up, she gripped the leather wrapped guard of the sword strapped to her back.

"According to the direction of the sun in this dismal weather, I would say it is little past noon. I was just about to stop for lunch. Would you care to join me?"

The little girl stood there, looking at the man on the horse. She was still unsure of his intentions. Her stomach growled at the mention of food, and the pains of hunger washed over her.

"I have crusty bread, cured meat and a little dried fruit and nuts."

Her dark eyes peered at him, and she held her breath. How long had it been since she had eaten? Three days? Four and a half? The thought of meat made her stomach rumble. As a result of thinking of food, cool saliva trickled from the corner of her mouth. The young girl held reservations about taking anything from the white-haired stranger. What would he wish in return? Perhaps, the food would be poisoned.

The strange man gazed silently at the young girl. She watched him study the sword sheathed on her back. His facial expressions did not betray his thinking. An emotionless mask appeared across his features.

As a direct result, the young child felt uneasy. The distress spread its oily tendrils, grabbing hold of the pit of her stomach. Why did he watch her with an intensity rivaling a charging striga? Shifting to the other foot, she felt twigs snap. The sounds seemed to echo in the edge of the forest.

Opposite of the warnings, something pleaded inside of her. A calmness soothed her fears and concerns. Clearly, he would have hurt her already if that was his intentions. Despite her other fears, something deep within the depths of his eyes assured her. Her father held the same look when he sought to calm her. As a result of thinking of her father, bile rose in the young girl's throat, and a slow ache spread to her body.

Silently, he sat upon the mare as rain slid down his grizzled face. The white-haired man waited on her answer. His golden gaze penetrated her soul.

She longed for conversation, and the man _was_ offering to feed her. Once more, her stomach growled with hunger. The thoughts of dried fruits and nuts clouded her judgment. Starvation washed away all doubts, building false courage within the child. Driven by the thought of the goodies hidden in the mare's saddlebags, she forgone her position by the tree.

At the same time, he dismounted the brown mare. His feet sunk in the mud of the dirt road. While the horse shook her head once again, he transferred the reins into his right hand. His gaze remained fixed on the tiny wraith of a girl.

She appeared small next to him. The young girl studied the man. A heavy blush appeared on her cheeks when she realized how his stance resembled the way her father carried himself. Also, the scars dotting the white-haired man's body reminded her of her father's own. The painful ache rose once more. Because of the sensation, she hated the agony she was in. Shame spread through her body, and she tore her eyes away from his.

Immediately, he lead the horse off of the road. The young girl walked beside him. She remained sheepish as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. There was something unusual about him, and she could not name what it was. Normally, she was keen on being able to read people. While she pondered on the situation she found herself in, her gaze settled onto the medallion bouncing against his supple, leather jerkin with his stride.

As the two ventured through the forest's brush, they looked for someplace dry to have their afternoon meal. Both studied the other in quiet thought, and neither said a word.

…...

The canopy spread overhead, interlocking the branches together as if a skilled thatcher worked there. A musky smell permeated the air around them. Occasionally, droplets of rain escaped and landed on the traveling party with thick plops. The wet grass clumped together and refused to spring back up where the three treaded. Various animals scurried out of her eyesight. A cold wind overcame her soul, bringing forth a sharp shiver. The shiver wracked her tiny frame.

In fifteen minutes, their brief trek came to a halt.

The young girl sat down with her back against a wet tree stump. As he looped the mare's reins around a thick tree branch, she watched his every movement. Was this the fates' cruel joke? She knew the man's type. He looked at her with his penetrating gaze, asking questions silently. Why was he studying her with such intensity? Did destiny send this lone stranger as her savior? "Who are you?" she asked, inquisitively.

"Geralt. A witcher." He carried a few items in his arms as he returned to her side.

The spread of food was very minimal. For starters, there was a loaf of bread concealed by a wrapping of cloth. Next to the bread, he sat a jar of repugnant, cream-colored paste. Another jar sat between them containing fruits and nuts. He produced another container filled with long, brown strips of dried meat and placed it next to the bread.

Geralt did not say anything else. There was an uncomfortable silence hanging over them, much like the low, dark clouds blanketing the sky from one horizon to the other. Immediately, he poured a small amount of Temerian Rye into a wooden cup. The brim of the goblet was chipped in several places. After he poured the drink, he walked over to her and bent down.

The silver flash of his medallion caught her gaze once again. Reaching out, she grasped it in her hand lightly as she studied it. To her amazement, it was not as heavy as it looked. An immortal wolf was captured in time, snarling and baring its fangs. In essence, it reminded her of her father's medallion. "Is this a symbol of your trade?"

He continued to watch her as he held the cup out to her. "It is," he stated simply.

"Hmm." The young girl took the cup and sat it on the ground beside her. Next, she reached for a piece of the hard crusty bread. The top crunched as she grabbed it, crumbs flaking off between her fingers.

Geralt stood up slowly, his eyes still watching Laelithra's movements. There was something different about the man now. It appeared he was more relaxed. He threw the coat off of his shoulders and dropped it on a rock next to him. He had a sword strapped to his back. The steel pommel and grip peeked over his left shoulder. "What is your name, girl?" he asked monotonously.

"Laelithra," she replied softly. The young girl took a bite of the crusty bread smeared with lard. Her stomach growled, cutting through the silence of the forest.

"It is dangerous on these roads. Where did you acquire your sword, Laelithra?" He eyed the sword resting against the rock beside her.

Reaching in the jar, Laeilthra took out a piece of dried meat. Immediately, she placed the end between her teeth and pulled hard. The meat was tough and tasted bitter. Next, she rose her gaze to his. She sat the piece of meat beside her and reached for the sword. Laelithra ran her hand up the hilt, feeling the cold, rough leather. Thoughts raced through her mind as she tried to come up with an explanation. Yet, she did not answer him. As she closed her eyes, it appeared as if she was trying to avoid the question, as if she was purposely ignoring the existence of the man before her.

"Laelithra, where did you get the sword?" he asked again, calmly. The man seemed to be eternally patient as he waited on her answer.

Opening her eyes, she found herself met into his golden stare. She sipped the rye slowly, allowing it to warm her stomach. "It was my father's," she stated sadly. Her stomach twisted again as if someone jabbed her with a dagger. Immediately, the bile rose in her throat. Laelithra tore her gaze from his and stared into the surrounding forest.

The witcher said nothing.

Her lips trembled as thoughts assaulted the young girl. She felt her eyes well up with tears. Yet, she refused to cry before the stranger. The leather wrapping slid beneath her fingertips. Memories of her father washed over her. Once more, she felt the bile in her throat.

Next, Geralt tore apart the bread. Still, he said nothing. It was as if he was patiently waiting for her to continue.

Once more, she looked back at the witcher. Her heart pounded in her chest. She did not know why he was so interested in her father's sword. It was a normal blade, and her father had used it to provide for them, she thought. Was there harm in telling him? The young girl narrowed her eyes at the white-haired man. He looked like he had not shaved in a few days, and she could smell horse on him. Yet, her father's old saying came to her mind. _My child, not everything that looks foul is evil. _For instance, this man, this witcher, had shared his food readily. Moreover, he did not expect anything in return.

He picked up the bottle of rye and took a long pull from it. It appeared to her that he had lost interest in the conversation. Yet, his golden gaze remained fixed on the child.

Once more, the memories came to Laelithra. There was so much blood as her father laid in her embrace, wheezing and gasping. Her ivory gown was still stained with his blood. _Make towards the river Buina. Then follow the Gwenllech. Stay off the roads, child._Laelithra remembered her father's last words as he pushed his silver sword into her grasp. The old man closed her fingers around the handle. Fear assaulted her heart as she wondered what waited for her by the Gwenllech. As she asked her father, he did not respond. He lay limp in her embrace as he passed to the next world.

A shudder came to the young girl again as she remembered, her body shaking as if she was cold. Laelithra never followed her father's advice. Fear had clouded her judgment, and she did not want to face what awaited her near that river. Again, she thought she was going to vomit. The child lapsed into silence as thoughts swirled around in her mind.

After the make-shift feast was completed, the witcher stood beside the horse. Geralt placed the containers of food, utensils, and cups into the travel bags before adjusting them. Next, he secured the bed roll, horse blanket, and his silver sword strapped to the blanket.

Laelithra stood next to him, watching the actions keenly. "Where are you going?" she asked him, quietly. Although she did not want to admit it, the young child felt a kinship to the older man. There was something about him which reminded her of her father.

"The Temple of Melitele in Ellander."

The young girl watched him lead his horse out of their clearing.

The sunlight streamed down at a low angle, making his hair appear milky. His gait was slow and deliberate. The mud clung to the soles of his boots and the horse's hooves. A cold wind blew, surrounding the man and his mare.

For a brief moment, she gaped after him. For a year, she had been on her own. For a five year old girl, it was a dangerous, hard life to be on her own. Often, she was taken advantage of. She was the weaker sex. Wrapping her arms around herself, she still stood staring after the witcher. In her eyes, he was strong and capable of defending both of them. Also, she did not want to admit it, but she enjoyed their lunch. "Geralt, wait!" she called after him.

The ivory-haired man slowed a bit, but he did not stop.

Immediately, Laelithra broke out into a sprint to catch up with him. There was nowhere else for her to go. She had never been to the Temple of Melitele, and she loved discovering new things. Besides, it gave her an excuse to avoid what was near the Gwenllech.

The two plodded on towards the Temple of Melitele.

…...

The rain stopped at mid-day, giving way to a brilliant, azure sky. Ivory clouds rolled and billowed in the distance. Occasionally, a warm gust of wind would blow across the dirt road. Puffs of dirt and dust would dance in its wake, swirling around the man's worn boots, the girl's little legs, and the horse's hooves. Animals scurried unseen in the forest on the sides of the road. This caused Geralt to snap his head and peer into the dimly lit woods from time to time.

Laelithra walked beside the witcher. When he would look into the woods, she would too. Yet, the young child could not make out any creatures. How long had it been since they stopped to rest? She did not know. Her thighs began to ache in protest to the never ending trek. A dull ache started in her lower back and proceeded to spread to her entire body. Immediately, she began to rub the small of her back.

Geralt placed his hand over his eyes and gazed off into the distance. For a moment, he was quiet. The witcher studied the layout of the land before him.

She watched his eyes squint as he stared into the setting sun. Briefly, she was reminded of a cat looking directly into a lit candle. "If our trip goes as smoothly as it has been, we should arrive at the temple in two days time."

The young girl started to fidget on the road beside the brown horse. She smoothed out her dirt stained dress. She looked down at the ground and kicked a small dirt cloud up. It spiraled around her, causing her to cough slightly. Laelithra was starting to become bored like any child her age. While he continued to watch the horizon, the young girl spread her arms wide and started to twirl.

"You're going to make yourself vomit," he warned, coolly. The male witcher did not turn his head to view her. Yet, it seemed like every noise she made he was aware of. As the wind blew, his shoulder-length ivory hair danced.

His words brought the young girl to halt her actions that very moment. Besides her father, she did not know of anyone whose voice held such authority. True to his words, the little girl felt the burning bile in her throat. A soft gag came from her. Immediately, she bent over and threw up by the horse's hoof. The mixture of meat, nuts, and sandy dust gave forth a hideous stench. Specks of the globular liquid stuck to her chin, the bottom of her dress, and between her toes.

He did not judge her as normal adults did, nor did he look in her direction. His gaze sudied the terrain before him. Geralt watched two large birds circle in the air with a frown on his thin lips. Quickly, he turned towards her. He placed the reins of the horse in the little girl's hands, went to the saddlebag, and retrieved a heavy, ebony coat. Dirt, dried blood, and sweat stained the coat. His eyes were not kind; they were calculating and penetrating. "You can wear this until we get to the temple. Nenneke should have a frock for you."

She took the coat and hugged it to her chest. Laelithra hated throwing up because the sick feeling stayed with her afterward. Her stomach rolled like a ship in rough seas. Once more, she felt the bile burning her esophagus. Immediately, she gagged again. Laelithra tried to hold down the vomit. Heat turned her cheeks red. She breathed deep, held her breath for some time, and released the air slowly.

After he handed her a container of dark water, a square bar of soap, and a light piece of cloth, he took the reins from her. Again, he looked towards the sky and watched the raptors circle. "Go and clean yourself. I will wait for you here. Laelithra?"

Instantly, she lifted her gaze to his. The ends of her platinum hair swayed with the movement. She clasped the container, coat, soap, and cloth to her chest. Why was he being kind to her? she asked herself again. Laelithra did not answer him aloud. Instead, she tilted her head towards him, shifted on her feet, and raised a slender eyebrow.

"Don't venture too far. If you were to injure yourself, I need to be able to hear your cries."

Without waiting for him to speak again, Laelithra ducked into the forest. For the most part, she wanted to get out of the smelly rag she had worn since her father was murdered. Of course, there were times when she would wash it as best as she could. She looked towards the road and kept the man and his horse in sight.

Reaching up, she unbuckled the thick strap crossing her chest. Laelithra sat the sword and sheath on the ground beside her. The sword and sheath were the only thing that remained of her father. She remembered how he spent hours polishing the weapon. When she was three, he taught her how. Then, she would sit at his feet as he regaled her with tales of various creatures, women, and booze. Of course, the young girl did not understand most of the problems in his stories. It kept her mind off of the clenching pain which wracked her belly, bones, and muscles.

She scrubbed her body feverishly with the gritty soap and rough cloth Geralt provided. The wet piece of cloth clung to her skin, making washing a chore. In fact, the fabric and soap caused her soft skin to become red and irritated. Yet, she continued to scour herself. She did not know when she would be able to wash herself.

Her lunch threatened to resurface as her stomach heaved. Once more, she thought of her father. Despite the laughter of the other village men and children, he insisted that she bathe every day. They would imply that he was raising a princess. The children would remark sarcastically that Laelithra should not do any women's work because she may get dirty. For this reason, the child did not have any friends.

"Are you ready?" he called to her. His voice held a slight quality of impatience to it. She could see him as he waited at the edge of the road. To her surprise, he did not fidget as most did. Geralt held the reins in his hand, looking up at the birds circling in the sky with a scowl on his face.

Laelithra ran her hand through her fair hair, parting the strains with her fingertips. She threw the coat over herself. It was much too big for the small girl. The sleeves hid her hands, and the hem dragged along the ground. She held the front close by hugging the used washing items and the coat's fabric to her chest.

As she walked to the horse and witcher, the coat's bottom dragged along the ground and collected leaves, dirt, and various insects. The frock's scent turned her stomach. However, she did not have any complaints because the man was taking care of her without any compensation.

Once more, she wondered what the white-haired man wanted with her. From her experience, no-one did anything out of the goodness of their heart. It would only be a matter of time before he would ask something from her, and she hoped it would not be too steep of a price to pay.

Geralt did not say anything to her as he turned to her. She could feel his eyes take in her appearance, and she felt self-conscious of it. Again, he went to the saddlebags. He produced a thick, tightly braided rope and tied it around the small girl's waist. It bit into the sides of her waist, and she yelped slightly in pain. The witcher gazed intently into her eyes, parted the waist of the coat, and swore softly.

A three inch, black bruise tarnished her pale skin. She avoided his eyes in embarrassment of the situation she was in. Unless someone touched it, the wound did not hurt. Immediately, she hoped he would not ask her about it. After all, it was none of his business.

"What happened to you, Laelithra?"

Of course, the fates were not with her. An exasperated sigh erupted from the small girl. "A merchant." It was the only thing she would say because she did not want to relive the horrible situation again. The merchant's plump face haunted her nightmares, and she knew he would never leave her.

"Come. We have to make up time since your washing delayed us." He changed the subject as if he sensed her reluctance to talk about it. She was relieved within, and she thanked him silently. Immediately, the witcher's gaze slid down her body. "You can not walk in that. It will slow you down even more."

"It will not. I can walk fine, Geralt."

Next, his hands went around her waist, gently. It amazed her that one such as him could be tender. He hoisted her up and placed her in the saddle of the brown mare. At one point, his fingertips touched her exposed wrist. A sharp, vibrating sensation spread from her wrist to her elbow. It did not cause her pain, but she looked sharply at him. Her father's touch felt the same.

Once more, he took the reins of the horse and led the beast.

Laelithra leaned down, holding onto the mane of the animal. Both of them were lost in their own thoughts, not speaking to one another. The silence did not bother Laelithra as it would most young girls. She was used to the quiet because her father was much like Geralt. He taught her that silence could be as enjoyable as conversation. She listened to the animals scurrying out of their way, the horse's breath, and the gruff ramblings of Geralt as he talked to himself. "Do you travel much?" she asked.

"Only during the working season," he replied simply.

The answer raised more questions. What exactly was a witcher's work? She watched the sword sway in the sheath on his back. Perhaps, he was some kind of mercenary. Once more, the grip bounced against the witcher's back. "What is your work?"

He did not look back at her. His hand shielded his eyes as he looked up into the sky at the circling raptors. "I kill monsters for coin."

"Is that why you are going to the Temple of Melitele?"

"No. I'm going there to heal."

His answers to her questions fed into her inquisitive nature raising yet more questions. What kind of monsters did he kill? Her father killed monsters for coin. It was how they lived until a creature killed him. Once more, the bile started to rise in her throat. The man she knew as father was a good man, and he was ripped from her life. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision. Immediately, she wiped the long sleeve across her face. She hoped the fabric muffled her sobbing.

Geralt did not give any indication that he heard her. The man continued to lead the horse and child.

Once the tears stopped, she watched the sword swing with his gait. "Where do you go when you are not working?" she asked, wiping the remnants of her sobbing from her flushed cheeks.

"I return to my kin in Kaer Morhen-Witcher's Settlement. It is a fortress. Well, it was a fortress. Not much remains of it. Now, be quiet. I hear voices on the road ahead." His eyes were riveted on a point on the road ahead, not deviating even when he spoke to her

"Geralt-" She shifted in the saddle, gazing down at the white-haired witcher.

"Shh!"

The two journeyed onward. Geralt still was fascinated by the birds in the sky, and Laelithra wished to know why. Yet, he had told her to be quiet. In fact, he shushed her every time she spoke. How did he hear anything besides the animals scurrying in the underbrush? Laelithra considered herself to have good hearing, but she could hear nothing.

The two rounded a large bend in the road. Immediately, Laelithra could see the cause of Geralt's apprehension.

Four bulky, sandy-haired peasants sat by a broken cart at the edge of the road. All of them argued over the livestock that pulled the cart. Upon looking up, the fattest of the three spoke, "We don't want you nor your kin on our roads, Whitey." He slurred the words, reminding Laelithra of someone who was drunk.

Laelithra watched Geralt's shoulders square and the hilt of his sword shifted upward. However, the witcher made no sign of the emotions going through him, nor did he show what he was thinking. If he had to defend the two of them, she was sure he would. "We're passing through," he retorted, neutrally. There was no hint of anything in his voice, and the young girl wondered how he could stay so calm.

"We do not want witchers, here," the man growled, spitefully. Next, the peasants stooped and grabbed a handful of rocks each. One by one, they hurled the tiny projectile at the horse, witcher, and little girl.

She watched the rocks fly past Geralt. A few hit his leather-clad shoulder, bounced off, and landed on the ground. The witcher made no sign of pain as the rocks continued to be thrown at them. In fact, Geralt looked straight ahead and led the horse past them.

Laelithra was not so lucky. Five rocks hit her in her side and shoulders. One particularly large rock smacked into her right cheek, cutting the flesh deeply. A thin, long line appeared, and it was followed by the flow of blood. The blood spiraled down her cheek, slid down her jaw, and dripped off of her chin. Immediately, she held her breath in pain. Her eyes narrowed, and she cursed softly.

"Go back to the hells you came from!" one of the fat simpletons shouted at their backs.

Yet, the witcher and child ignored the peasants. Blood dripped off of Laelithra's face, landing in thick plops on the coat she wore and the saddle of the horse. Laelithra held her hand up to her face in an effort to staunch the blood flow, but the liquid pooled beneath of her hand, spilled through the spaces between her small fingers, and landed on the neck of the horse. She knew she would need it mended.

"We'll get off the road, have dinner, and rest for the night," Geralt said after a few moments of silence. He did not wait for her answer before he started to look for a place to rest.

…...

The witcher had his right hand clamped around her chin, his fingertips biting into the soft flesh. His auric amber eyes flared slightly, staring into the young girl's gaze.

If the look was suppose to keep her from moving, it did not. Sharp pain radiated from the needle passing through her cheek. Each time the twine went through the flesh, she would pull away and whimper. Despite the agony, she refused to cry before the man. "Why did they throw rocks?" she asked him. Another pass of the thick string and another wincing shudder from Laelithra prompted Geralt's hold on her face. Because of the death grip, he made her lips pucker. Her eyes flashed in anger and annoyance.

"Because they did not need me. It is the same at every village. I look for postings at crossroads, gates, and notice boards. If there is witcher's work, I take it. If there is not, I am met with stones." Geralt explained it in such a matter of fact manner that Laelithra would have doubted the validity of it, had she not just witnessed it firsthand. If he was angry, he wasn't showing it. His left hand looped up, piercing her flesh once again with the needle. Once more, he dragged her face forward and swore softly.

Again, she held her breath against the pain as the twine pulled the wound close. She shut her eyes tight, willing the witcher and his needle and threat to go away. With each stitch, a brilliant, white light flashed before her eyes.

"It wouldn't hurt as much if you held still," he murmured, roughly. If it was possible, his voice was calm, soothing, and almost gentle. In fact, the tone surprised her and forced her to open her eyes. There was warmth in his golden gaze. It was the only time she had seen emotion in his face. As quickly as it appeared, it melted once more into his emotionless mask.

She curled her fingers around the edge of the large boulder she sat upon. Another pass of the needle caused Laelithra to jerk away once more. Again, she heard Geralt's rough sigh. To her credit, the young girl was trying her best to sit very still, yet, the thick twine felt like it was cutting deep within her cheek. It needed to be done. If left untended, the wound could become easily infected and cause her death. "They..used to throw stones at Father too," she admitted, quietly.

"Who was your father?" Geralt asked quickly, speaking with her suddenly showing more interest in speaking with her than he had since he asked about her sword.

Immediately, the young girl regretted speaking. She did not want to talk to the white-haired witcher about her father. The memory of him was still as raw as the wound on her cheek. However, it surprised her that he did not ask about her father sooner. The pain of remembering equaled the pain of the needle and thread. Sadness submerged deep within the depths of her eyes.

"Villagers used to call him Viktor of Vizima," she answered quietly, trying to keep the sadness threatening to burst forth. " We would travel from town to town, and he would take notice postings about slaying a monster. When I was three, we found a small village on the outskirts of Cidaris. Father was weary from traveling with me. We settled there."

For a long moment, Geralt did not answer her. He kept at his task, moving the needle gracefully in his fingers. "Laelithra," he spoke slowly, making sure he had her attention completely. "You are saying that your father was a witcher like me,and that his name was Viktor of Vizima? Has someone been telling you stories?" Geralt pulled away from her and gazed into her eyes, his catlike orbs unreadable as he searched her intently.

She rubbed her upper arm, roughly. The only thing running through her mind was that she did not like his look then. He looked ugly with his lip turned up in a scowl. "I am telling you what the villagers called my father." Laelithra stated defiantly. It was clear Geralt did not believe her, and she felt offended by the notion. "He had unusual eyes, white hair, and killed monsters for coin,"

"It is impossible. We can not have children, and Viktor was slain when Kaer Morhen was assaulted."

How long ago was Kaer Morhen assaulted, she wondered to herself. Brief images of her father flashed through her mind. Of course, he survived because he was heroic and defended the other witchers there. Laelithra idolized her father, and there were no other thoughts that could explained how he survived the attack. The young girl blinked slowly. "I can only say what I know. Everyone called him Viktor. He was not my real father."

"Child of Surprise," he muttered in disbelief, barely audible. It sounded like a combination of a half groan, snort, and laugh. He set the needle and thread down on the small rock. Running his hand through his hair, he looked into her eyes.

"Geralt?" Laelithra said, turning her dark gaze up at him. She rubbed at the stitches that held the flesh of her cheek together. The wound stung and itched at the same time. She sighed roughly once more.

"Don't pick at it, or it'll scar worse," he warned. He stood, picked up the girl, and put her on the ground.

Immediately, she dropped her hands to her sides. The wound still itched and burned, and it took all of her willpower not to scratch at it. She wished to listen to the witcher. It seemed like he had her best interests in mind. Why did he care, she puzzled to herself. Laelithra did not trust anyone. "Geralt? What is a Child of Surprise?"

The man's thin lips turned downwards into a scowl.

She felt small and insignificant in Geralt's golden gaze. Why was he so quiet? Her small lips curved into a frown a she stared back at him. People had always said that Laelithra was foolishly brave. There was very little that made the young girl flinch. "What is it? A Child of Surprise?" she asked again, slowly. Laelithra reached up and tried to scratch her face again, yet, she suddenly remembered the words he had spoken mere moments ago. Immediately, she dropped her hand to her side again.

A rough sigh erupted from the witcher. His eyes narrowed, and he chewed on the inside corner of his lip, coughing slightly. "The Law of Surprise," he began finally, "is an old custom in which as a reward for saving the life of another, one would request something that belongs to the rescued, but is not known to them. a...lover..or, in your case, a child. This oath creates a permanent and powerful bond between the two people. A child of surprise is destined for great things and plays a very important role in the life of the person who invoked the Law of Surprise. Although the tie of destiny is strong between the two, the child must choose to go with the invoker of their own free will."

Laelithra plopped down on the ground and held the coat tightly around her. Her mind reeled from the information Geralt had shared with her. Lifting her dark gaze to him, she tried to see if there were lies in his eyes. The young girl could not be destined for great things. She was alone in the world, set adrift because of her father's murder, and she met this witcher by chance. After he left the Temple of Melitele, she would be alone in the world again. Would the priestesses force her to stay at the temple? Her future began to look dismal.

Once more, the witcher stood shifting uncomfortably. "In any case," he continued, coldly, "I do not think you are a Child of Surprise. As I said, Viktor died when Kaer Morhen was assaulted. The only one who survived was Vesemir. Your father was probably someone claiming to be someone they were not."

Laelithra was an astute girl. She noticed the change in the witcher. He had become cold, and it angered her slightly. Yet, she enjoyed his company when he was not like this. What had caused the change in him, she wondered, bitterly. Laelithra leanred to speak of neither destiny nor Children of Surprise anymore.

Geralt still gazed at her, coldly. She felt like she would freeze in place, and she still did not know what cause the change in him. "I do not know if I have enough food for dinner tonight. I will go hunting and see if I can catch anything." He avoided the questions that were unspoken in her gaze. "Do you know how to set up a camp?"

"Yes, my father Vik-" She paused as she saw his iron stare, causing her to swallow hard. "My father taught me to set up camp while he went and killed whatever monster he was hired to kill. I can also cook. If you find some rabbits and have vegetables in your saddlebags, I can fix us a stew."

As she was talking, Geralt started to walk off. "We'll see," he called over his shoulder at her before disappearing further into the woods.

After a few hours, the white-haired man returned, carrying with him two thin, lean hares. The lifeless animals dangled limp in his left hand. Their brown fur looked paler in the dim light cast by the setting sun. Dull, glassy eyes stared unblinking into the beyond.

The death of animals or monsters did not bother Laelithra. She was not a shrinking violet, frightened of what stalked in the darkness. She knew the creatures, both natural and summoned from the sins of man. The young girl knew the difference between life and death. Beasts harassed innocent people, and her father slew them for enough coin to buy supplies for his himself and his daughter.

No, death did not shock her like would have shocked others of her age. Ghosts, murder, and violence haunted her dreams. In a way, the young girl had grown accustomed to it. On the other hand, she woke up almost every night terrorized, seeing people she loved die in nearly every way imaginable. Except the one who really mattered, her mind whispered to her. Guilt washed through Laelithra's being. Could she have prevented her father's murder if she had known, or was there no way of stopping it? If she had known, she could have warned him to not accept the fiendish contract that night. Once more, sobs stuck in the young girl's throat.

Geralt sat down, placing his kills on a rock beside him, and ignored the sobbing girl. Immediately, he took the first rabbit and placed it on a smaller rock before him. Reaching down, he pulled a long, thin serrated knife from his boot. He raised the knife, brought it down sharply, and severed the head and feet of the rabbit. "There are vegetables in a pack on Roach," he said, bringing Laelithra out of her thoughts. "They aren't fresh, but they have to do."

She wiped the coat's sleeve across her cheeks and eyes again, ridding herself of the hot, shameful tears. She stood, feeling an ache in her backside. How long had she been sitting there, wallowing in her self misery while he was hunting? Would the pain from her father's death ever leave her? Opening up one of the saddlebags, she peered inside and took inventory of the contents: a medium sized wooden chest rested on the bottom, a smaller chest emitted a minty smell, a mortal and pestle with trace amounts of plant material, and a few bottles of alcohol wrapped in thick scraps of cloth.

As she reached in for the smaller chest, Geralt's voice startled her. "No, not that one," he warned. "Those are poisons." She heard the wet, tearing sound of skin being removed from muscles by force. When she gazed over at him, she could see the blood from the animal slipping down the edges of the rock, the pink, fleshy form of the skinless the rabbit, and Geralt's ivory hair hiding his face from view. The ends dragged through the liquid, dying it a pale pink hue.

Once more, Laelithra returned to rifling of his saddlebags. How could he have see her taking out the chest, she wondered. His attention seemed fixed on preparing the hare. As thoughts rushed through her mind, she ascertained that he must have been watching her carefully. This infuriated the young girl. She was not, nor she ever, be a thief. Even though her situation had called for it many times, Laelithra had never resorted to banditry to survive. Her dark eyes flared with latent fury. "Where the f-"

"Watch your language, Laelithra. Those words are unfitting for someone your age and gender," he chastised her, softly. She watched him squeeze the creature softly, moving his hand down the ribcage to the hindquarters. Again, he repeated this movement. The young girl could not see his face as it was still masked by his long hair.

Laelithra felt the heat rise to her cheeks as a result of the lecture the stranger had given her. Anger, disbelief, and stubbornness reared up within her, mixing together and coating her insides like a black, sticky ooze. Who did he think he was? He was not her father. To keep from crying again, she turned her attention to the horse. "Where should I be looking?"

He held the skinless rabbit by its front legs and slapped it down with moderate pressure. She heard a soft plop as the hare's gray entrails landed on the rock above the body. "There is a bag hooked to the horn of the saddle on the right side of Roach. The vegetables are in that one. There should be an onion and carrots."

Laelithra found the large bag. Immediately, wondering how she could have missed it in the first place. Thick leaves of a beet stuck out of the top. A strong earthy smell assaulted her senses.

"There is a container of lard in there, also," Geralt commanded. " Bring that to me, please."

After retrieving the items he requested, Laelithra returned to him. His coat hung off of her like the flesh hanging from a very old woman's bones as its ends dragged along the ground, collecting debris from the forest floor. The musky scent of the witcher did not leave the coat yet, and it penetrated all of her senses, causing her stomach to churn. The pot in which she stored the food felt heavy to her small hands, yet, she did not complain. In reality, there was not much she could complain about. She would be grateful to Geralt for a long time. He had allowed her to accompany him, shared his food, and given her clothing. The only thing she could not understand was that he did not wish anything in return. No one did things out of the goodness of their heart, and she was convinced that Destiny did not exist.

"Here," Geralt said, handing her an empty waterskin. "there is a stream beyond that hill, there." He pointed through the trees behind him. "Fetch some water while I finish preparing everything else."

Before taking the skin, she reached up and scratched the stitches on her cheek. The wound itched and burned, irritating her skin and spirit. How could she have been so foolish and let herself be hit by a rock? Worse yet, she felt a hatred towards the people who had done it. Geralt did not deserve it, and she knew it. Fury assaulted her, coiling deep inside her stomach like an ebony snake.

Laelithra turned around and listened to the babbling of the stream to find the direction it which it was. For once, she willed her thoughts to cease. It was a problem with the young girl, and her worries kept her awake far into the night. Then, when she did drift off to sleep, the nightmares came.

As she entered the edge of the wooded land, she heard him call behind her, "Remember, do not venture past the stream. I need to be able to hear you if you need my help. Oh, and Laelithra, stop scratching that wound. I meant what I said about it scarring worse if you don't leave it alone."

Once more, her hand stopped against her cheek. Immediately, the young girl bristled. "You are not my father. Stop ordering me around," she murmured, softly. She was sure he could not hear her because she said it underneath her breath, letting out a mere whisper. If he had heard, he made no mention of it.

Down by the stream, Laelithra set the skin on the ground, hiked up Geralt's worn coat, and placed her feet in the cold water. At first, she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The frigid water shocked her system. She could feel the mud oozing between her toes, and she giggled with childish delight. It was not long before her body became accustomed to the coldness and the prickly numbness passed quickly.

She wondered at how her life could take such a turn. Surely, her father's death was not the catalyst for her to be with Geralt now. What made her chase after the witcher like that? It was fine being alone. Yet, she craved his company. He was aloof, quiet, and observant. Why did he give her his coat? Was he providing for her? A rough sigh was slipped from within her. Suddenly, she felt older than she was.

The stream babbled next to her, lapping against the rocky shoreline like lovers gently kissing. Light streamed through the canopy, making the clear water sparkle. Two large toads splashed in and out of the water a short distance away.

As she bent down and picked up the skin, she filled it with water. The young girl was not quite as observant as she used to be. There was one reason for it, and he was in the camp. With someone like Geralt there, she did not think of her own safety. He would, and she knew it deep inside.

Because of her lack of awareness, Laelithra did not see the figure step out behind her. The pallid, wrinkled creature was completely naked, stringy, crimson hair covering its breasts. Blood dripped from its mouth, making the ivory fangs sparkle amidst a ruby river. Yellow, glowing eyes settled maliciously on the young girl. An extravagant _A _wreathed in flames was seared into the cadaverous flesh between the hair covering its breasts. Long, taloned fingers twitched with anticipation.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

"Are you finished, Laelithra?" Geralt's voice rumbled, loudly, breaking the silence of the forest. There was a hint of suspicion laced within the tone.

Laelithra stood, turning back to where the witcher waited. She did not see any creature before her. She ignorant of the danger she was in. Her thoughts were dominated by trying to explain why the witcher was being kind to her, and she was not paying attention to her surroundings.

When she rejoined Geralt, she saw that he was holding his medallion up by its chain, staring at it. The argent wolf's head vibrated roughly, and it swung wildly on the chain. A scowl formed on the witcher's face, making him look years older. When she approached, he looked up and stared deeply at her. "Did you encounter anything while you were out there?" he asked intently.

The question puzzled Laelithra, the tone more than the words. What was she supposed to have found? There was nothing but a stream, trees, and animals. There was nothing that could harm her, she thought. "There was nothing out there but the stream," she answered. How wrong she was.

….........

As fifteen minutes had passed, Geralt unlaced his shirt and pulled the medallion out from beneath the cloth. As she looked at him and the medallion, she noticed it would bounce sharply against his chest. Then, it stopped suddenly. He scowled, yet, it was not unusual to her. It seemed like he was always scowling. She had not seen a smile grace his countenance in the short time she had been in his company.

The silence started to stifle Laelithra. While she liked being quiet to think, a part of her craved to find out everything about this stranger. She felt comfortable around him, and she was sure he felt the same way. Geralt did not judge, coddle, or suspect her like most grown ups did. In a way, she felt like he was showing her how to survive in a harsh world.

Once more, she watched the silvery light reflect from his medallion as it shook violently. With each vibration of the metal, an unusual coldness crept over Laelithra. The unusual feeling made her hackles raise and goosebumps spread down her legs and arms and an uneasy nausea overwhelm her. There was something wrong, but she did not know what it was. Suppressing the feeling, she stared at the witcher. Despite the fear welling within her, she asked, calmly, "What does your amulet do?"

He stirred the browning rabbit as it sizzled in the pot on the fire. For a brief second, she thought he was going to ignore her question. Geralt did not look up at her. "It vibrates when monsters are near," he said as he stirred the pot, "or when a source of magic is nearby."

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Laelithra went back to sitting beside him as he added the onion into the pot. "Does that mean that there is a source of magic around here?" she asked hopefully

"No. I've traveled this area many times before, and my medallion has never shaken here like it is now. I believe there is something in the woods, watching us, and I do not know what it is, Laelithra." His eyes were drawn to the Roach as the horse snorted and swished her tail nervously.

The young girl did not answer him. Her eyes widened, displaying the fear she felt mounting within her stomach.

Geralt poured the water into the pot, handed her the wooden spoon, and went to the Roach. Lifting up the horse blanket, he gingerly removed the delicate silver sword from beneath it. "I need to make sure that we are safe. With a child, I am at a disadvantage. Stay by the fire and call out to me if you see or feel anything approach you."

Laelithra loathed the thought of being alone. This was different than when he went to go hunt for their dinner. A slow creeping horror filled her stomach, traveling over her fragile body and dulling her senses. The only thing in her thoughts was that she had to go with Geralt. After all, he would protect her. He did not invite her along on his journey to the temple only to let her be raped or worse by bandits.

Immediately, her eyes darkened. She pulled herself up to her full height, looking the witcher in the eyes. "I could help. Father taught me-"

Geralt sighed roughly, cutting her off. His eyes narrowed, taking in the stubborn form of the young child. For a brief moment, she felt a different kind of fear. She knew the witcher would not harm her; yet, the look in his eyes terrified her. It was as if she could be swallowed alive by his stare. "Whatever your father taught you," he said, "I doubt you could be of much help at all. There are far worse things than thieves in this world." Although the words held no tone, she felt as if he had slapped her. Without waiting for an answer, he started to walk away.

Laelithra did not wait for him to stop. Quickly, she launched herself at the witcher and wrapped her tiny arms around his left thigh. She did not know what she was thinking. Memories of her father dying in her arms clouded her mind and judgment. Blood and gore overtook her thoughts. As a result, she clamped onto his thigh as tightly as she possibly could. The little girl felt his muscles tense under her grip, the rough feel of leather scratched the cheek with the stitches, and stones bit her knees.

Geralt held his breath as he looked down darkly at the small girl affixed to his leg. His back tensed, his hands clenched, and his lips curled as he snarled. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked, quietly. Though he didn't speak loudly, there was a brooding quality to his voice. It reminded her of nothing so much as the air before a thunderstorm.

Laelithra looked up at him. The fear of losing him and the grief of losing her father mixed together, making a terrifying mix within in her. It forced her to ponder how she could feel so close to Geralt. Neither of them talked much. She decided it must have been when he was stitching her wound caused by the peasant's rocks. Disobediently, she wrapped her arms around him more tightly. The young girl did not want to lose him like she lost had her father.

Girl," he warned, sternly. At the same time, he reached down and pried the fingers on her right hand loose.

Her eyes widened as a chill went up her arm. A shock passed through her like he had slapped her. Yet, she knew he had not. The young girl refused to cry out and scooted away from him, beyond his grasp. Once more, she was reminded of her father and his touch. They were almost identical with one small exception. Her father's touch was more unpleasant than Geralt's. The difference was minuscule, though it was noticeable. As she rubbed her right hand feverishly, her gaze stayed on his face.

"I told you. With a child, I am at a disadvantage," he continued, quietly. The scowl did not leave his acute features.

She ignored him. Geralt was of the type that would become quiet for a lengthy amount of time when one did something to displease him. Then, suddenly, he would start talking again as if nothing had happened. During their brief time together, Laelithra learned to wait him out.

"Remember, Laelithra," Geralt repeated, "stay by the fire and yell out if you see or feel anything strange." She heard the swift, silent steps of the male witcher as he left her to find whatever was causing his medallion to vibrate. He seemed to vanish, blending into the dark woods like an apparition.

Immediately, she walked over to the pot and looked down. The liquid bubbled vigorously around the carrots, meat, and diaphanous onions. Occasionally, she would run her hand across the cold flesh on the back of her neck as the tiny hairs stood on end.

Laelithra's nerve quailed at once. A frightened little girl no more than five stood in her place. Taking a deep, relaxing breath, she glanced around the campsite uneasily. She dipped the wooden spoon into the mixture and made sure to scrape the bottom to keep the gravy from scorching. What could be worse than thieves? There was nothing worse than bandits. They would steal the horse and have their way with her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she shivered deeply. What would happen to her if they came while Geralt was away?

It was a ridiculous thought. Of course, they wouldn't come here. Most thieves had common sense, and they would have seen that Geralt was well armed. She laughed clear and sharp once, and the sound echoed eerily in the woods surrounding her.

Laelithra stood and swiped off the dust gathering on the coat. It wafted away from her in thick chunks. The feeling of terror did not abate in the small child. In fact, it seemed to grow with each tedious moment. She walked over to the Roach, lifted the saddle blanket, and withdrew her father's sword.

The leather strapping woven around the handle of the sword was slightly frayed. She ran her fingers over the runes etched into the blade, tracing the deep indentations. Feeling the blade in her hand and its comforting weight in her grip gave her some courage. Of course, they wouldn't come into their camp, she tried to comfort herself.

She ran her free hand along the horse's flank. "It is queer to be frightened," Laelithra murmured, softly. " Isn't it, Roach?"

The chestnut mare turned her head to the side, peering at Laelithra with her dark eyes. She flicked her ears as if answering the young girl. Then, she swished her tail and hit the girl's buttocks.

The sound of light footsteps alerted her to someone, or something, entering the camp. Immediately, she twirled around and pointed the tip of the sword at the intruder. Her heart rocketed into her throat. Sweat trickled down her neck and slipped beneath the heavy, soiled coat. It coated her skin and created a dingy, sticky layer on her body. Despite her bravado, the sword trembled in her hands.

Geralt stood there, surprise and humor reflecting in his eyes for a brief moment. Then, the emotionless mask slipped back over his countenance. His amulet still shook, bouncing off of the center of his chest. "I don't know if you are brave or simply foolish, girl," Geralt's gruff voice called out to her.

….........

Throughout her childhood, Laelithra would never forget the emotion lurking deep within the witcher's eyes when she turned on him with her sword. The humor and disbelief in those golden depths made him appear much younger than he was.

Geralt retrieved a piece of rabbit from the pot and inhaled it. Yet, she was quite sure he did not take the time to taste it. His eyes glowered at her across the campfire between them. The flames lit his face, giving him an ethereal glow. A rough sigh escaped from deep within him. "Damn it," he rumbled, finally. "What were you thinking, Laelithra? What if it was not me returning? I told you. There are worse things than bandits in this world. Alpors, archspores, bruxae, cockatrices, devourers, kikimores, zeugls. "

The young girl was silent. She faintly remembered information about the monsters he spoke of. Her father had taught her. Bile rose in her throat again as she was reminded of her father. Yet, the pain was lessened. Laelithra was confused as to why the pain was less acute than usual. It used to consume her thoughts. Presently, her thoughts were consumed by the white haired witcher before her.

Once more, Geralt sighed deeply. He stood, retrieved the steel sword from his back, and gripped the handle loosely. "I'm going to train. Remember to stay where I tell you to next time. You are lucky there will be a next time."

As he walked to a corner of their small camp, Laelithra followed him with her wooden bowl of stew in her hands. Immediately, she set the bowl on a large rock. The rock overlooked the area where the witcher was going to train with his weapon. As if she was a cat, she leaped up onto the rock. Next, she sat down and scooped up the bowl of stew, her gaze remained on the male witcher.

Above them, the stars winked in the heavens. The moon shined down on him, making his hair shimmer like a ghostly apparition. A soft breeze made the grass, flowers, and leaves on the trees dance, as if they were children eagerly anticipating the witcher's display.

Geralt stood, his gaze fixed on the ground. He paid no mind to the wind groping at his creamy burlap shirt. The rough material rustled softly in the breeze. Also, he did not notice her. His concentration was absolute. Suddenly, he lifted his countenance.

A soft gasp escaped from Laelithra as she saw the intensity within his eyes. They sparkled with a focus that took centuries to attain. She remembered that very look in her father's eyes when he instructed her or trained with his own sword.

Geralt bent his knees slightly. His body bobbed almost unnoticeable with the control the man held over himself. He raised his sword. The long, thick blade ran parallel to the ground. For a brief moment, she thought he forgot what he was doing as she watched his shirt rise and fall with the slow breaths he was taking. The wind sought to make him its own again, encasing him within a billowy cloud of leaves and dirt. As ivory mane flew behind him, he ignored its cold, groping tendrils.

Laelithra felt the coat start to slip from her small frame. Immediately, the little girl set the bowl down beside her again. She dropped her hands to her waist, loosening the knot of the rope. Once more, she gathered the worn leather around her before tying a tighter knot. The cold air made her shiver, and she nestled deeper inside of the oversized garment.

The hiss of cold steel cutting the night air brought her eyes to the witcher again. She recognized the agile movements. After all, she had watched her father in a similar exercise.

"_You're still not doing it right? How many times do I have to tell you? Pirouette. Parry. **THEN** Cut," the man before her growled. His ivory brow narrowed as he looked at the young girl. Sparse gray hair lay against his shoulder in a loose ponytail. He held the sword loosely in his grip._

_She did not answer him. In fact, her eyes narrowed at him as her upper lip stiffened. Her platinum hair flew in the cold wind. Snow fell around them, coating the ground in a rolling blanket of white._

_He glared coldly at her. "You do not know how many foes are around you. If you do not parry, you will die. Do you want that? It'll make my life easier."_

_Laelithra did not shrink away. Her stomach cramped. Agony shot through her entire body, igniting liquid fire in her veins. She felt nauseous, and she forced herself to swallowed roughly. Sweat beaded on her tiny body, making her eyes sting. "If you wanted your life to be easy, why did you even take me?" she hissed, venomously_

_The old witcher stalked over to her. She could hear the snow crunch beneath his worn boots. When he was inches before her, his earthy and intoxicating scent assaulted her senses, making her stomach churn. Suddenly, he struck the back of his opened hand against her cheek. The studs on his glove cut her skin barely. "Insolent child," he growled, gruffly._

_She shrank away from him as her eyes widened in shock. Instantly, tears clung onto her thick eyelashes. Laelithra turned her head, looking away, and studied the snow._

_He took her chin in his hand, gripping it as if he wished to crush her jawbone. At once, he pulled her face up and made her look him in the eyes. "You will watch me. Then you will repeat it. I have no patience for failure or insolence. You know this."_

_Wisely, she did not answer him. He did not require an answer. When he was in a foul mood, his commands never did. An answer would only provoke punishment. She gripped the hilt of her wooden sword in frustration and rage. However, Laelithra still remained silent. The young girl feared the consequences of her defiance to him._

"_Pirouette," he explained, roughly. At the same time, he placed his feet slightly apart before going into a full spin. His blade swung in a wide arc before him as he whorled. As the momentum increased with each turn, his blade flashed and reflected the newly fallen snow. Taking deep breaths, his chest and fell with the movement._

_She shifted on her feet, and the snow clung to her boots. Once more, the cold wind assaulted the young girl. It pawed at her burlap shirt and trousers, attempting to claim the clothing as its own. The breeze stung her cheeks, bit her nose, and reddened her knuckles._

"_Pirouette, now. Don't make me regret giving your brother up over you."_

_At once, her teeth clenched together, not from the cold, but from rage. The cramp in her stomach reignited, and her bones screamed in torment. She would not cry out in pain, nor would she show him her discomfort. Laelithra started to twirl as the man had instructed. After the third twirl, she felt light-headed. Yet, the fear of displeasing him outweighed the nausea._

"_Again."_

_Even if she wanted to, she could not refuse him. The wooden sword grey heavy as its blade swept in a wide arc as she turned. Around and around. Her stomach threatened to relieve itself of her dinner. _

"_Again."_

_Her back shuddered in protest. She could feel her heart drumming against her chest, and she wondered how it burst out of her. Despite the cold, sweat formed on her body. It rolled down her back and soaked the seat of her pants. The sword felt yet heavier in her hands, making her forearms ache. _

"_Again," his emotionless voice insisted. He stood before her with his arms crossed over his chest. As he studied her movements, his eyes would narrow occasionally. The old man would mutter some colorful obscenity before returning his intense gaze to her. "I've seen more agile movement from a one-legged dwarf in a whorehouse," he taunted. "Do it again, and do it right this time."_

_Once more, she rotated on her feet. Briefly, she wondered how long the man was going to make her train that day. When she could not get the simple pirouette style down a few weeks before, he made her train long into the early hours of the morning. She felt herself lose her balance, swaying uneasily. Then, she collapsed onto the newly fallen snow. Immediately, she cried out as pain shot from her left leg clear up her body and passed through her entire body. _

_The man sighed roughly and cursed loudly, "Worthless whelp of a girl. Get up and do it again!"_

_At once, the snow sought to bury her. Flecks of it covered her back, stole into her pants, and coated her hair. Her leg throbbed as the blood oozed from the gash caused by a large rock. Laelithra lay there, refusing to feel useless at the man's words. _

The scene faded before her eyes. As she thought about her father, she fought to keep the bile from rising in her stomach again. She huddled deep within the coat now, more for protection from memories than the breeze. How could she forget the fear that swirled around the old man? Laelithra needed to drive away the memories to place them in the proverbial closet and never let them see the light of day. For this reason, she focused intently on the male witcher below her as he trained.

His ivory hair whipped around his shoulders as he entered a pirouette. Some of the strains of the white mass lashed against his scarred cheek. A flash of steel cut through the night air as his blade accompanied his graceful twist. Geralt was light on his feet, moving fluidly. It was as if every step was choreographed in his mind. He spun around effortlessly before performing a parry as he came out of the last turn.

She tried not to make the comparison between Geralt and her father. Geralt was patient. He had proven that many times since they met. In fact, she was sure he would not demean her if she could not get a simple pirouette right. A harsh, disgusted sigh escaped her small mouth. Pirouettes were anything but simple.

The Roach whinnied nervously, and the sound of it drifted on the wind to the witcher and child. Looking in the direction of the horse, Laelithra could see the animal stomp at the ground. Next, the mare shook her head, and the dark mane danced in the breeze.

The fear had returned to the young girl, making her hackles rise up once more. Terror turned her knees into the consistency of jelly. The sensation was primal, and her confidence in the witcher's protection was running thin quickly.

Out of the corner of her eye, Laelithra watch Geralt as he stopped training. His amulet jumped against his chest. It was almost as if it was trying to break free of the chain holding it. He turned toward the Roach. Wordlessly, he went to the mare, placed his steel sword on the animal, and gripped the handle of his delicate, silver sword.

Laliethra turned her head, seeing the thin shape of the feminine creature beyond the cozy campfire. She did not realize the creature was the one which almost endangered her at the stream. Dread engulfed her heart as she slipped down from the rock.

Immediately, the vampire's sanguine eyes followed her movement. Her crimson hair did not cover her breasts anymore. They were dotted with fresh, thick droplets of gore. Bloody flesh hung from her clawed fingertips.

"Alpor," Geralt exhaled, in disgust. As Laelithra approached him, Geralt lifted his sword and pointed the tip of the slender, delicate blade at the beast. With his free hand, he pulled the small girl behind him.

_This does not concern you, white-haired one. _A slow smile graced the tiny, pale face. Behind her thin, pallid lips, two long, slender fangs glistened in the moonlight. Her eyes settled on the child behind his legs

The lips of the vampire did not move as she talked. Yet, Laelithra could understand the other woman as clearly as if she had spoken. The hideous voice echoed in her mind.

Yet, the witcher did not answer.

_She was promised to my mistress by another. Do not come between the prey and myself. If you try, I will break you and present you to Mistress Jhaer, herself. You will wish for death a thousand times over before she is done with you, witcher. _

Geralt clenched his teeth together. He stood rigidly and tightened his grip on his sword's hilt, glaring at the creature before him. "We'll see," he replied roughly, showing no emotion to the beast, his fearless eyes meeting hers defiantly.

….........

The fire crackled amid them. For a brief moment, they stood and stared at each other. Neither the witcher nor the vampire moved. Each seemed to size the other up, waiting for the other to move. Even with the threat of the White Wolf, the creature's beady eyes never left its prey.

Suddenly, Geralt stepped to the side, blocking the vampire's view of the little girl. The silver blade sparkled in the moonlight. His body was tense, and his muscles rippled beneath his shirt. His free hand was extended, blocking Laelithra from moving forward. "Get on the Roach and flee," he murmured to her. His breath came out in a harsh rattled.

The little girl looked at him. "No, I can help." In her mind, she could. Her father had trained her the basics. How difficult could the vampire be? Yet, there was something worse in her mind. What if the alpor was very dangerous to fight and Geralt was killed? A shiver rushed through her body, causing her to latch onto his arm tightly.

If the male witcher could have pinched the bridge of his nose, he would have. The girl was stubborn, and she skirted along the lines of foolishness more times than naught. His golden eyes never left the alpor. Laelithra felt the veins in his arm tense underneath his shirt. Of course, she had frustrated him again. "Get on Roach and **FLEE**," he said again, growling harshly through his clenched teeth.

Whether it was the tone in his voice or the fear creeping up her spine, the young girl finally acquiesced to the male witcher. After all, what could a little girl do against a creature like that? She gazed up and down the witcher's head, back, and legs. He looked fearless, yet her own legs felt like rubber. If she got on the horse, where would she go? Laelithra did not know the lay of the land there. Her heart pounded in her chest as she weighed her options.

Geralt did not look at her because his focus was entirely on the alpor before them. The beast moved her clawed hands delicately as she waited for one of them to make a move. Rotting, black blood dripped from her mouth and landed on her chest and the ground in thick, festering pools. Raising one of her hands, she pushed the crimson hair back from her left shoulder. Gore clung to in the matted strands. She was an apex predator; she was able to stalk her prey through shadows and night. The alpor had all the time in the world.

"Laelithra, go!" his voice rang out like a parry of his sword.

Immediately, Laelithra retreated. He was right. There was no hope for her to help him. Terror buried its tendrils deep within her body, enlarging her pupils and causing her legs to quake. Yet, it was not the beast that spread fear in her. Would the witcher sacrifice himself for her? What if he died because of her? Her upper lip quivered slightly. No, he had said he killed monsters professionally. Additionally, he looked more skilled than her father had been.

The alpor's eyes followed Laelithra's movement. She had forgotten about Geralt because the witcher was not the one she was after. Instantly, the creature rose up, arched her back, and let out a malicious wail.

Shocked by the earsplitting cry, the young girl froze. She brought her hands to her ears, shut her eyes tight, and willed the creature to leave them. The blood in her head throbbed. Her veins felt like they were on fire, boiling with the intensity of the alpor's screech. To Laelithra's credit, she did not scream. Being foolishly brave, she did not call out.

As the creature's wail assaulted her body, Laelithra felt her knees shake like a jar of lard. She could feel the vibrations of the sound trail painfully up and down her spine, threatening to burst her brain within her skull. The young girl dropped to her knees with her hands still covering her ears.

Gracefully, and more quickly than Laelithra thought possible, the vampire floated across the ground towards her. Her tiny, pale feet did not touch the ground. The maleficent eyes glowed crimson, staring intently at her victim. Her fingers twitched with the anticipation of maiming the young girl. Yet, her mistress forbade it. The girl was important to her.._their_...plans.

Laelithra dropped her hands from her ears, lowered them to the ground, and dug deeply into the grass and earth with her fingertips. She forced her eyes opened, and she stared at the earth. Her head still felt like it was going to explode, yet, the creature had stopped wailing in its pursuit. Still, she could not move. The young girl felt weak and physically drained. Her mind was left in a haze, reeling from the aural assault.

A shrill shriek of pain and a gruesome sizzling sound caused the young girl to jerk her head up. The sound echoed and rose high into the forest canopy.

Geralt stood before her and the vampire. He gripped the delicate, silver blade with two hands, stepped forward, and swung it in a semi-half circle. An arc of blinding white light was left in its wake.

Yet, the creature was smart. Perhaps, she was too intelligent for them. As he took his stance and swung, the alpor started to float backwards immediately. She was agile for kind. The tip of the blade swept across her chest. As the blood oozed from the creature's wound, the little girl realized it was not a fatal blow.

As the vampire jumped into the air, arched her back, and screeched again, Laelithra shouted. Terror thickened her voice. Her tongue felt swollen, and her throat was dry. A cold chill passed through her body. She saw her father, laying in a pool of his own blood. A desperate need coursed through her body as she jolted forward while the alpor was occupied. "Geralt!"

Either Geralt was distracted by Laelithra, or he underestimated his opponent. He was slow on his protective sign. Much too late, he crossed his wrists before him. The wail sent him flying backwards, crashing into a tree trunk. A searing white light flashed before his eyes as the back of his head hit the tree. Blood, his blood, colored his lips, coating it a dull hue. Slowly, he slid down the tree into darkness.

Still, the creature advanced on him. Laelithra saw the malcontent in the alpor's eyes, she looked as if her glare alone consume the fallen witcher. The young girl did not have to have the centuries of training her companion or father had to know what the vampire was intending to do. Yet, she was petrified. She could neither move nor speak. Her body shook violently

Effortlessly, the creature glided toward him. The sight that followed was surreal, and Laelithra would try to convince herself that she dreamed it. Bending down before the fallen witcher, a tender, cruel smile graced the vampire's diaphanous lips. Lifting her arm, the long, slender talons fingernails glistened in the moonlight. Flesh being ripped rang out in the stillness of the forest. Sick, wet pops were followed by a scream of torment as silver once again seared the malevolent being.

Laelithra stood next to the two combatants, shaking uncontrollably. Tightly in her hands, she held the silver sword, her father's sword that he had given her before passing from the living world. The moonlight illuminated her dark eyes, shining with hate and rage.

The sinew was exposed in the vampire's wrist. Her hand hung by tissue, nearly severed. Animosity filled her eyes, hatred for the small girl. With her good hand, she tried to turn and push the girl away from her. She was under direct orders not to harm the girl. The threat of Jhaer outweighed the desire for retaliation.

As she felt the alpor push on her, Laelithra dug her heels into the dirt and stubbornly stayed in place. Once more, she raised the silver blade and relished the look of fear in her foe's crimson eyes. A shining trail followed, knifing through bone muscle, and flesh.

The clawed left hand dropped with a wet thud beside the prone witcher. Immediately, the vampire hissed in pain, trying to compose herself. Black blood poured from her wrist, landing in congealed pools on the ground. Her eyes narrowed as she glared at the small, enraged child. She could feel the heart beat in the girl, drumming fast. Potent and Quick._ Yet, the fear was engulfed by the rage. An unusual twist. You care for the witcher of Rivia. This is something that Mistress Jhaer did not foresee, something she would want to know. Make no mistake, Child of Viktor, you were promised to us. You will be ours. No-one, not even the white-haired one, can stop it._

The voice resonated within Laelithra's head. She still stood between the vampire and Geralt. Her sword was raised, pointing at the vampire. Her body shuddered as she heard the creature's words. She tried to deny the fear coating to her heart like a black poison. Laelithra did not answer.

Smiling as her large, slender fangs glistened, the creature turned and vanished the woods._ Long live, Mistress Jhaer. Long live, the Arcani!_

Laelithra let the creature go. She lowered the blade, shivering now from dread. The young girl knew Geralt was wounded, and she did not know how bad it was. The grisly sounds of muscles and skin tearing would haunt her for as long as she could remember. It was too dark to check his wounds, and the fireflies had already disappeared for the night. With that knowledge, she knew she would have to work as best she could in the moonlight. Silently, she thanked her father for allowing her to tend to his wounds.

Approaching the witcher, her eyes searched Geralt's face sympathetically. With his unconscious state, he much rather younger than when he was awake. The relaxed state seemed to smooth away his numerous scars. Dropping her gaze to his arm, she inhaled sharply.

He was cut deeply. The bones in his forearm was visible, pale ivory sparkling through the flowing crimson.

Frowning with worry, she tried to pull him forward. She knew she had to stop the bleeding, or he could die. There was so much blood, and her heart clenched painfully. This was her fault, her mind whispered as she gripped her silver sword again. The blade slipped effortlessly through his shirt, and she pulled it toward her. The loud sound of the fabric giving way echoed around them.

Through it all, her eyes always returned to his medallion. There was an occasionally oscillation, however, it did not vibrate like it had been before the vampire had made herself known. It brought her little comfort, and she let her gaze drift to his chest. Scars crisscrossed his skin like a topographical map: the price of a long life of hard work. Once more, her heart tightened in fear.

Ripping a square of fabric from his shirt, she pressed it against the wound and tried to staunch the bleeding. Wolves howling in the distance, crickets chirping, and every mundane noise prompted her to look at his medallion. Who was this Jhaer? What was the Arcani? Most importantly, who promised Laelithra to them?

….........

She sat stoically beside him, pushing on the wound and changing the makeshift bandages. Sweat streaked through the dirt on her face. Reaching up, she tried to wipe away the tear tails. The young girl tried not to let the fear show as she studied his face.

Shadows cut his gaunt face. His ivory hair was stained with his own blood, pink with streaks of a rusty hue. Thick eyelashes lay against his hollow cheeks. Thin lips rested in a neutral line, reddened by with blood. Occasionally, he would moan roughly and reach out with his good arm for someone who was not there.

Laelithra wrapped an arm around her knees, rocking back and forth. If he died, what would happen to her? How could she live knowing someone else died because of her? A knot tangled in her gut, causing her to swallow hard. She tried to stem the horror and guilt, but she could not deny the truth.

She heard a scratching noise in the darkness just out of her sight. A sense of terror overcame her again. What if it was the creature returning? Laelithra was not like the witcher. She did not possess his endurance, speed, or strength. The only thing remarkable about her was her father. If the vampire returned, she would be defenseless because she did not have the element of surprise anymore.

The amulet bounced lightly against his chest. It was not an erratic jumping. Mostly, it vibrated against his flesh. Once more, he turned his head and grunted weakly in pain. He did not open his eyes or speak to her. He remained deathly still, and it tore at the fiber of her heart.

Once more, wolves howled a short distance away. The alpor was not the only thing the young girl feared. There were many things lurking in the darkness that the presence of the male witcher drove away. Yet, they were both vulnerable with him unconscious. Many creatures, including the vampire, could take advantage of their current situation.

Reaching over, Laelithra felt for the silver sword's handle. Blood still dripped from the blade, coating the delicate metal ebony. Touching the blade calmed her fears. However, the young girl knew she would not fare well against the things that stalked this world. The witcher was right. There were worst things than bandits.

Shivering, she tried not to remember the look in the alpor's eyes. Cold. Maleficent. Unfeeling. What made creature's like that? Trying to remember what her father had told her, she sighed deeply. The memory was beyond her, teasing her with its elusiveness.

Tearing another thick piece of cloth, she returned her attention to Geralt.

Blood soaked through the bandage, wetting the palm of her hand. His face was pale, even more so than usual. Whenever he moved, the wound would reopen, spilling more crimson onto the green ground. He had to awaken soon, or she would be forced to stitch his wound while he was unconscious.

Fear clouded her heart and mind. Laelithra dreaded the thought because she did not know what would happen if he were to stirred while she was doing so. Her father had once lashed out at her unexpectedly. This witcher was faster, stronger, and younger than her father. He was more powerful, and she wished to avoid any situation that put her in danger. From experience, she knew one was disoriented after a head injury. Would he even remember where he was or who she was?

She lifted up the soaked cloth from his arm and placed it on top of the other used bandages. The blood did not flow from his arm as it did before. Her color drained from her face when she saw the injury. Laelithra knew he would need stitches to close it or it could get infected. Could witchers get an infection, she wondered to herself. She applied a clean bandage to his wound and pressed down as hard as she could. Determination rushed through her veins.

The witcher let out a painfed, guttural groan and shifted next to her. Slowly, she watched his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as awareness returned to him. His pale cheeks took on some color as he moaned again. He his hand and felt the back of his head.

"Don't move," she told him softly. Immediately, she placed her tiny hands on his chest and tried to keep him still. Blood pounded in her ears, her head throbbed, and her stomach threatened to relieve itself of her dinner.

At the feeling of small hands on his body, his molten amber eyes snapped opened. Instinctively, he reached for his silver sword, yet, he came out with nothing. Wildly, he gazed around him. His unconscious state had left him dazed and confused. "Where is it?" he asked as his head bobbed around. He was unaware of the amount of blood he had lost. For this reason, his head spun. Geralt grunted again and felt the large knot at the back of his head. However, she was sure his arm felt much worse.

"Since you are awake, I have to clean and stitch your wound. She attacked you when you were passed out." When he turned to look at her, there was someone much older than five standing there. Her lips were pursed, causing thick lines to bracket her mouth. She narrowed her eyes as she stood. Instantly, she brushed the dirt and dust off of the over-sized coat.

The young girl could hear him move, sit up and lean against the trunk of the tree. He leaned over, lifting up the severed hand of the alpor. Studying it intensely, he flipped it over in his hands. It was not cleanly severed, the flesh around it hanging jaggedly. If rather sloppy, he could not deny the silver sword had done its job. "There seems to be more to you than what you told me," he muttered underneath his breath, barely audible.

The statement was not meant for her ears, but she heard it, anyway. She knew he did not mean any harm with the utterance. It still stung her deeply. What was she looking for from him? He was a stranger, and it did not make any sense to seek his approval. He was not her father, and what he thought about her should not matter. _You care for the witcher of Rivia. _Immediately, the creature's words returned to her. Laelithra knew she should not care for Geralt, the witcher of Rivia because the twohad just met. Yet, she could not help herself. "I told you, my father, Viktor-"

With the twine, fresh bandages, and a bottle of rye, she sat before him. She folded her legs beneath her and took his arm in her hands. A large lump formed in her throat as her hands trembled.

Disgusted with the object in his hand, Geralt threw it in the bushes. The severed hand with long crimson talons sailed through the night air, landing with a dull thud. When Laelithra poured the alcohol over the wound, he clenched his teeth. His head thumped, his arm burned, and his back screamed in agony. He did not say anything about his pain, or her quaking, to her, however.

Quietly, she picked up the twine and slid the needle into his flesh. Her large, wide eyes sought his as if she were a frightened rabbit. Relief had overcame her when he had stirred. Now, she did not know what to think. "You knew Viktor of Vizima, my father?" she asked, meekly. A part of her longed to understand the harshness behind the man she called father. If she could understand, maybe she wouldn't have to feel guilty anymore.

At first, he did not answer her. Instead, he gazed at her intently. He did not flinch as the needle with thick string made another pass through his skin. Slowly, he let out a breath. "I do not believe any of us _knew_ Viktor," he began, finally.

Quietly, she picked up the twine and slid the needle into his flesh. Her large, wide eyes sought his as if she were a frightened rabbit. Relief had overcome her when he had stirred. Now, she did not know what to think. "You knew Viktor of Vizima, my father?" she asked, meekly. A part of her longed to understand the harshness behind the man she called father. If she could understand, maybe she wouldn't have to feel guilty anymore.

At first, he did not answer her. Instead, he gazed at her intently. He did not flinch as the needle with thick string made another pass through his skin. Slowly, he let out a breath. "I do not believe any of us _knew_ Viktor," he began, finally.

She weaved the needle back and forth as her father had shown her many times before. Laelithra was not surprised by his tolerance for pain. In fact, it would have surprised her if he had shown the pain considering what he did for his living. "What was he like?"

"Viktor? When he was training, he was a radical man. He was a radical man with unusual ideals. His disdain for humans left no doubt, seeing them conjure some monster or another because of their sins. His interrogations bordered on the fringes of insanity. Even if their answers proved to be correct, he would often mutilate their bodies. Then, we thought he had died during the attack on Kaer Morhen. Many of us had. Old Vesemir was the only to survive. Now, I do not know. How did he survive? Did he turn coward?" He trailed off, talking more to himself than to her.

She pushed her lips together tightly, looking away. Her father was nothing like that. No, the man who took her and her brother from her mother and real father was kind. Yes, his training was brutal at times. However, it was because she needed to be faster and stronger than she was being.

"Who's this Jhaer?" Geralt asked.

Laelithra wound a thick strip of cloth around his forearm. Next, she wound another strip through his fingers, up his arm. She tied a knot. "I do not know, Geralt. She is not the only thing that worries me. The vampire said 'Long Live, Jhaer, Long Live, the Arcani.' I have never heard of either." Fear washed through her again. She shivered noticeably beside him. Once more, questions came to her mind. However, she could not find the voice to ask them.

For a brief moment, the cold, calculating eyes of the witcher soften. Without a word, he raised his good arm and placed his hand on her shoulder. He squeezed gently. "We'll find out, Laelithra," his voice was low as he spoke.

Hours passed. Geralt sat with his back against the trunk of the same tree, stretching out his long, lean, muscular legs. In his hands, he held a large book. Occasionally, his jaw would twitch, and his eyes would darken. The young girl could not read his thoughts. Yet, she did not need to. He was reading a book about the creature that attacked them.

Hysteria clawed at the insides of Laelithra. He had told her to sleep because they were going to leave when the first rays of light fell upon them. How could he expect her to sleep? The vampire, an unknown being, and an organization were after her. Did they intend to kill her? Immediately, the darkness seemed too dark as if everyone who was after her lurked just beyond the light of their camp.

Shivering again, she pushed the horse blanket off of her. She sat up and wrapped her arms around her chest tightly. Her eyes searched for the witcher. What would happened if they came when he was injured? How could he protect them?

As little girls do, she stood and went to her only source of safety, Geralt. She sat down beside him, leaned into his side, and looked at the etchings of various kinds of vampires. His body felt hard and lean against her skin. Truly, she felt safe there with him. No one would threaten her existence with the witcher there. She was certain of that.

"You should be sleeping. We leave at the break of dawn. I do not look forward to another night in these woods with alpors and who knows what else is out here."

Laelithra did not answer him. Instead, she studied the etchings on the pages. Laelithra could not read most words. Her father taught her to read basic descriptions of various creatures. He did not think it was important at the time. "Geralt? What is an alpor?"

His hands stilled on the pages. Instantly, he shot her a look out of the corners of his eyes. "An alpor is a type of vampire," he explained. "They rely on surprised attacks and live in caves, ruins, and nearby human settlements."

Laelithra did not speak. She felt an overwhelming desire to sleep. The day's events weighed heavily on her. Presently, she wished to rest. Breathing in deeply, she inhaled his scent. It was a scent that she would become used to in later years. Earthy. Now, it calmed her. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she thought she would just close them for a bit and listen to him talk.

"Here's what I can not understand," Geralt said, thinking aloud. "What is so special about you that make an alpor's act unlike an alpor? Why did it make itself known? Why did it follow us through this forest?" He looked down at the little girl against his side.

Laelithra breathed deeply, snoring lightly. Her eyes were closed tightly. One of her tiny hands rested on his knee, and the other one wrapped around his arm. Because of her sleep, she missed the confused and humorous look on the witcher's face before he wrapped his good arm around her shoulder.

….........

_Blood. Terror. Darkness. Outside, the thunder roared, and lightning stretched across the sky. Inside, the crypt was dark and dank. The walls felt like they were closing in on her as a sticky wetness coated the left side of her head, neck, and burlap shirt. The liquid oozed down her hands, and she found herself fighting to stay conscious. It was far too black for her to see._

_Yet, she heard the creature. It was different from the alpor who had attacked them and more powerful. She could hear the sound of it spinning round and round as the tattered clothes fabric it was wearing rustled in the unnatural wind. A lyrical sound accompanied the vampire's macabre dance. The young girl could not understand the words. Yet, the language sent a chill up her spine, coating her insides with a thick, black sludge._

_She closed her eyes. Perhaps, it would go away. If she rested, the wound to her head would not hurt anymore. The bleeding would stop, the hideous laughter and singing would go away, and the frigid, eerie wind would not seep into her flesh and bones anymore. The young girl was tired as exhaustion set into her young body. _

_Her eyes widened as she heard the singing cease. Did the creature leave her because she wished it to? No, she did not hear it leave. Yet, she wondered if she would have with it being agile and delicate. _

_Suddenly, she felt a cold, manicured finger travel down the left side of her face. Laelithra tried to hide the involuntary shudder of disgust. Her breath hitched as the fear held her mind in its grasp. She could not move or talk. The only thing she was capable of doing was shaking._

_**Do I frighten you, Child of Viktor?**_

_The young girl did not answer the creature. She shrank away from the touch to her cheek. Her eyes were wild and wide, yet the blackness refused to let her see her captor. Laelithra tried to block out the sucking sound. The vampire was licking her fingers._

_**I feel your weakness, child. You wish to sleep. Sleep.**_

_Once more, her eyelids felt heavy. The words sounded welcomed to her. She was tired, and she should have rested. Her head throbbed, her back ached, and her wrists ached. Sleep would solve all those problems. Her senses would welcome such advice. Maybe, if she just rested her eyes...._

_No! Her eyes snapped opened. She could not sleep. It was what the creature wished. Although her body was on the verge of giving itself over to the exhaustion, the little girl fought it. Laelithra could not doze. It was dangerous. The witcher's life hung in balance, and she was the only one who could warn him about the trap. It was a vicious trap, one intent on destroying him. _

_Yet, her eyes refused to stay opened. She had to force herself to be awake. Laelithra would not allow him to die. He had protected her. Now, it was her turn to protect..._

_**The White Wolf will die, Child of Viktor. He is in the way, and he will be dealt with in the way my kind deals with his. Make no mistake, child, he will die.**_

_She saw a blinding light flash before her eyes. Her head throbbed and agony exploded throughout her brain. Immediately, her small body collapsed to the floor._

_Blood. Terror. Darkness._

"Daadddyy," she cried out loud as the fear thickened her voice. Immediately, she sat up and looked around herself wildly. Reality blended with her dreams. She did not remember where she was. A part of her thought she was back with her father. A blanket was thrown over her, making her sweat mix with that of the horse. Where was the blanket her father always gave her to sleep with? It comforted her and calmed her fears. Presently, it was gone.

"Laelithra?" he grunted. Sleep coated the edges of his words.

Looking up, she saw her father there. His hair was whiter than usual. In fact, she noticed that it hung loosely and stopped at the beginning of his broad shoulders. He was shirtless and barefoot. Reddish-brown leather pants covered his hips and long legs. A beige bandage, which was soaked through with red, wrapped around one of his arms. When did her father injure himself?

Reaching up, she ran her hand through her platinum hair, pushing strains of it out of her face. Her eyes were still wild with fright, yet she could not remember what had terrorized her into awakening. She could feel the thunder of her heart in her chest as it slammed against her ribs. Her mind still whispered of a trap. Laelithra had to warn someone of a trap, and she did not remember who.

He stood there, looking at her for a moment. She could read his rigid body language. The man was unsure of what to do. He ran a hand through his white hair and pushed it off of his left shoulder.

Laelithra shuddered uncontrollably. The thought of not knowing what woke her bothered her more than any dream could. She gripped the edge of the blanket tightly, making her knuckles whiten. Her bottom lip quivered rapidly as the tears welled up in her eyes. After a moment, she could not hold them back. They spilled over her thick eyelashes, rolled down her cheeks, and dripped from her chin onto the blanket.

"Hey. You're fine. It was only a bad dream," his voice entered her thoughts. It rumbled gently, like warm cloths that had been drying in the sun all day. Still, sleep grated in it.

For the first time in her life, she thought he was right. It was only a dream that she could not remember. Dreams do not come true. She would have remembered it if it was important. However, her mind would not stop whispering to warn someone of a trap destined to destroy that person. Who? She asked herself.

"You should get some more sleep, Laelithra. We will be leaving in a few hours."

Leaving? What were they fleeing from? Her drowsiness had confused her. The need to drift off came over to her. He was right. If they were traveling, she needed all of her energy. Traveling by horse exhausted her because the horse's movement rattled and jarred her small body.

Looking into his eyes, she saw the tiredness coloring the golden depths. The smoldering embers of the fire made the light in his eyes dance. Strange, she thought to herself. Her father's eyes were vibrant blue, like the sky on a cloudless day, not like liquid gold.

Slowly, sleep overcame her as she thought of how strange the man before her was.


	3. Chapter Three

There was no other way to put it; Laelithra loved the temple grounds. For once, she thought she made the right decision when she chose to go against her father's last wish. Traveling with Geralt had given her her some insight into the war torn world in which they co-existed. Despite Geralt's misjudgment of Viktor's personality, Laelithra felt like he had offered her insight as to the reasons her father was the way he was when he training her.

The sunlight angled downward on the young girl as she balanced on a long, stone beam lining the walk way. From her left and right, the smell of jasmine and cherry blossoms drifted to her. It was strange because the smell had an effect on her; it soothed her thoughts, lulling the fears that gnawed at her insides. She took a deep breath, taking in the pleasant aroma.

Walking along the narrow stone was easy for Laelithra. Many times she would skip quickly, and she would always keep her balance. Her dark eyes stared intently at the thin wall. It was wider than the slim stone walls separating her father's strange gardens.

"_Get up and do it again," his cold, penetrating voice echoed in her thoughts._

_Her tiny body protested as she lay in the blanket of sweet, mint-smelling ferns. The curled tops tickled her nose, feeling rough against her skin. Bruises covered her small form, making her arms, chest, legs, and stomach appear black. The wooden sword rested a few inches from her prone form. She tried to move and take her place on the cold, hard stone, yet her body refused to move. It lay broken, clinging to the only place that did not hurt._

_The old witcher stalked to her and bent down menacingly. "I said get up, foolish girl," he spat out, venomously. She did not have to see his eyes to know the way he looked at her. They would be as hard as steel and penetrating like a barbed arrow-head. His long, gray ponytail trailed over his left shoulder._

_Once more, she tried to lift herself from of the ground. She placed her hands on the ground and pushed up. As her arms gave out, she landed face first back in the ferns. Her breath came out in harsh gasps._

"_It's easy if you do it right."_

_The anger built within her as it always did. Wrath was as natural to her as breathing. Emotion flamed in her body, clouding her mind to sound judgments. As fury raged inside her, she gritted her teeth and lifted her head. Her gaze mirrored his, and her jawline stiffened. "If you feed me right, I could do it right." Injustice coated her insides, and defiance burned in her eyes and voice._

"_Insolent child," he growled, angrily. She could smell liquor and leather: her father's scent. Many years later, it would remind her of the other male witcher. The old witcher was inches from her back. _

_The small girl could feel the brush of leather against her leg. Reaching up with a shaking hand, she pushed her hair out of her face. Finally, the agonizing pain overtook her body and cut her as deeply as a knife. A hiss of pain escaped through her clenched teeth._

_As his fingers bit into her sides and tore tiny sprigs of the herb from the ground, she refused to show her pain by crying. Her body revolted against the rough handling, each of her nerves screaming out in anguished, as she was placed on the stone wall again._

_Her feet gripped the long, slim object, her thighs burning from the effort of holding herself there. For a brief moment, she thought of staying there and disobeying the old witcher. What would be the consequence of going in the house and fixing herself a meal that was not mushrooms? Immediately, her stomach grumbled at the thought of red meat. She could not stop her train of thought. Where did he get the herbs and mushrooms? They did not grow in the wild around their house, she thought._

"_Do not think. It is not enough to merely know what is going to happen next. It needs to be instinct, or you will die, child," the older witcher explained, gruffly. He bent down and retrieved the sparring sword from the grass. The old man walked to her and handed her the sword. "You will run along the wall. Once you get to the center, you will execute a half spin. You will do it flawlessly. Don't make me regret taking you, a girl, over your brother."_

_She gnashed her teeth together and glared into the depths of his blue eyes. Anger roared through her veins. The blood pounded in her ears as she gasped in a deep breath. Red colored her cheeks. "I can do anything that my brother could, or any boy for that matter," she growled, roughly._

_Viktor crossed his arms over his leather-clad chest and stared at his daughter. A twisted smile appeared on his ugly face. It would seem that seemed her outburst had pleased him. "Show me, then."_

_As she stood on the wall, the muscles in her back protested the movement. She reached up, touched a blackened bruise, and winced. Laelithra did not know how much longer she could take her father's training. Her body screamed in agony. Did he seek to kill her? No, her father was preparing her to live in a world where women were valued as property._

_Her body shot forward as if it was released from a bow. She raced along the wall with feline grace. Torturous pain shot up her left foot, racing along her leg, yet, the young child had taught herself to ignore such feelings. Her father did not feel such things, and she was determined not to either. Halfway along the wall, she turned around in a half-spin. Once more, anguish erupted into her back. It was accompanied by a stabbing sensation through her left leg and arm this time. She barely heard Viktor tell her to straightened out her stance in the half-spin, or she would have a vulnerability there in the future. The pain consumed her thoughts._

"_Again."_

_Even if she wanted to refuse him, she could not. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. Turning around, she sprinted up the long stone. Her body rebelled against the movement. Yet, she did not heed it. Again, she turned, looked down the wall, and wondered what he hoped to accomplished with her. Laelithra started into a fleche. After she brought her left leg before her right, the young girl took off in a sprint. The wind mingled with her flowing hair and rustling dress._

"_Faster. Do it again."_

_He did not even let her go into her half-spin that time. Clenching her teeth, she advanced to the beginning of the stone wall. She could not be as fast as Viktor. Once more, she raced along the stone. However, the fabric of her dress did not allow her freedom of movement. It confined her, trapping her in its clutches. The dress was a hindrance._

"_Again."_

Immediately, Laelithra shook her head at the thoughts of her father. She had learned to cope with the fabric of her clothing. Her father was adamant that she was not a boy, and she would not dress like one for their training sessions. After all, things seeking to harm her would not wait while she went to change into something more appropriate for fighting.

She narrowed her eyes, looking once more at the wall separating the beautiful flowers. Determination surged through her. Stopping her skipping along the object, she lifted her head. Placing her left leg before her right, she readied herself. Like a bolt from a crossbow, she shot up the length of stonework. Her muscles flexed with her speed and effort. Gracefully, she entered into the half-spin. Laelithra rotated around. As smoothly as she entered into the technique, she stopped.

A crisp wind blew, sending more of the gentle fragrant aroma of the flowers to Laelithra. Her hair danced in the breeze. Immediately, she wrapped her arms around her chest and tried to take warmth in the creme burlap dress the plump priestess had given her. The garment's sleeves completely covered her arms, restricting her movements more than she was accustomed to.

Running a hand through her hair, she looked around her. She could see the female novices working in the orchard, bees darting about before her, and birds perched on the branches of trees. The Temple of Melitele was beautiful. Of course, her father would have loved it there. While he was hard on the outside, he respected things of beauty. Once more, the bile rose in her throat as she thought of her father. Laelithra had to force it down.

Briefly, she wondered as to where Geralt had disappeared. Upon their entrance to the temple grounds, she noticed how the young girls seemed to blush and whisper to each other when he was around them. They would look at him through lowered eyelashes and giggle. Laelithra wondered what made the older girls react to him that way. Many years later, she would learn the reasons behind it firsthand. Presently, she viewed him as a strong friend she could count on in times of need. Also, she was very young and did not understand such concepts as carnal lust.

Shortly after he introduced her to the priestess, and the plump woman fussed over and applied a cool paste to both of their wounds, he said he needed to take care of something and disappeared. It was two days ago, and she had not seen hide nor hair of him since. It clenched at her heart because she missed him. Was the creature right? Did she care for him this soon? If so, he would be her downfall like her father was. Of course, she respected him.

The sun shone down on him, making his ivory hair shimmer. He wore another cream burlap shirt, laced. Underneath of the shirt, he wore the medallion of his trade. His leather pants clung to his hips and long legs. The large flap of his boots swallowed the ends of the trousers. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

"I have seen her techniques, Geralt. She is agile and her reflexes and senses are hone." the short, plump high priestess stated to him. Her dark eyes stared intently into his. "Just yesterday, the novices, child, and I were gathered around in the refectory taking supper. Suddenly, there was a whoosh of air and a loud squeak. The girl hit a rodent...in the light of a single candle."

The witcher did not answer her. He smiled slightly.

"Stop grinning like a proud fool. Exposing the girl to your work and your elixirs is dangerous and irresponsible," she scolded.

"I am not exposing her to anything, Nenneke," Geralt responded calmly. "I do not know how she became so honed in what she does. From what I gathered, her father was killed, by what, I do not know. I suspect she had been traveling alone, and I do not know for how long. It could be possible that the constant threat to her life has sharpened her instincts and reflexes. I assume she's been through much, considering of the nightmares keeping her awake at night."

Laelithra noticed he did not mention who her father was. A frown formed on her face. Did he not believe her explained of who her father was? After all they had been through, he still did not believe her. As he talked about the threats to her life, the merchant's face bubbled up in her mind again. The fear hit her like a charging striga. Laelithra froze in place, willing the memory of the fat merchant who ill-used her away.

"Then, you did not bring her to be healed. You wish her to stay at the temple?" Nenneke couldn't keep the hopeful tone from her voice.

"Yes," he admitted, reluctantly. "She has made no mention of a mother or sibling or any other family. I believe she is an orphan. That is not the cause for my decision, though. There are people after her. I promised to help her, yet I can not do anything until the war's over. I have other obligations."

Nenneke studied him with an unusual smile on her face. It was almost kind. "It is strange," she said. "Fate swirls around the both of you like a maelstrom."

Laelithra lost interest at that point. She resumed her fierce practice along the wall separating the flower beds. Swiftly, she moved as her hair trailed out behind her. The young girl did not worry about Geralt leaving her behind. He wouldn't do that, she thought, would he? Her legs started to protest the speed at which she ran.

The male witcher leaned against the marbled column behind him, crossing his arms over her head, and watched the small girl.

….........

Her stomach growled loudly, making the young girl frown slightly. Reaching up and hooking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, she tried not to remember how the hunger used to gnaw at her, hounding her every step like her own shadow. If she were to survive on her own, she had had to make due with what she was available. Money was sparse in the young girl's lonely existence. Once, a merchant's large purse felt a few small coins lighter after he passed the small waif with dark eyes and light hair. Smiling, she remembered how she felt like she had eaten a feast when she bought the loaf of bread and honey with the coins.

Presently, the soft patter of her feet echoed down the stone hallway. The large open corridor lead to the refectory. In the corner was a statue, depicting three women: A young girl, a pregnant woman, and an old maid. Each statue had arms outstretched with palms opened, providing comfort to the goddess's followers. In several other corners, there were various plants that Laelithra did not recognized. Her brief introduction into herbal lore was a cautionary tale after the young child had decided to nibble on the tips in the leaves of her father's herbal garden. It had rendered her into a coma for two weeks.

She stared up into the statue's eyes, darkly. Where were the gods and goddesses when her father died, and she had called out to them for aid? Where were they when the merchant abused her? Where were they when the creature attacked Geralt and her, injuring the witcher? The cold hard truth was that the world they lived in was more real to her than any form of faith could be. In fact, the truth was murder, rape, and robbery, not some imaginary comfort a goddess could give her. Terrible creatures stalked the shadows, and most of them were clothed in human skin. If she could not trust men, who could she trust?

Immediately, her mind drifted back to her father's brief teachings: not all that was fair was good and not all that was foul was evil. It did not take long for her thoughts to alight on the male witcher. Geralt was the ultimate proof of the saying. He looked so fearsome with his blades, yet she felt at ease with him. When she was not training, her father was the same way. Was that the reason she grew attached to Geralt as fast as she did, she asked herself

Behind her, she heard airy laughter. The young girl was comfortable around adults, yet she did not know how to respond to children her own age. Her father took her from her biological mother when she was very young, trained her since she was very young, and robbed her of her chance to socialize with those of her own age. A dark murky fear spread throughout her. She knew she did not want to be caught by some of the younger novices in the temple. They would wish to speak to her about the white-haired witcher or worse. Perhaps, they would want to know about her father.

Laelithra took a deep breath, held it, and released it through her nose in a gentle whistle. She would not be intimidated by children her own age. What could they possible do to her? Once they learned who trained her, they could reject her. The young child had no possible way of knowing that the novices might have accepted who trained her because of the numerous visits to the temple Geralt had made.

Yet, Laelithra decided to take the easy way out. Tearing her eyes away from the statue, she looked towards the end of the hallway. Quickly, she entered the refectory before the others behind her could say any thing to her.

His golden eyes gleamed behind a dark wooden fork. In his other hand, he held a sharp knife. Before him, there was a large piece of greasy chicken. Thick chunks of dark meat clung to the bone in various places. A much older Laelithra would try to break him of the habit, preferring him to be himself over someone she wanted him to be. In truth, the older Laelithra would fall for the male witcher. Sometimes, her feelings would be willing. Other times, he would coax it out of her. It would become the nature of their relationship: drifting with each other in a sea of willingness and depending on each other in a world set against them.

For now, she was content in watching him. There were many occasions were he would remind her of her father, yet there were other stark differences between the two. Laelithra could never imagine him training her like her father did. As she came to that realization, she noticed he was watching her curiously. Of course, he had to have questions about her. Helpful adults always had questions, then, they would turn on her when she answered. They would beat her. The beatings were not so bad. She was sore the next day, but she would become craftier. In fact, she would take that as opposed the worst thing they could do.

"Hungry?" his voice rumbled, interrupting her thoughts. Lifting her gaze, she found him staring intently at her. While his eyes held the usual penetrating gaze, there was a different quality to them. He looked at her warmly.

Laelithra did not answer him. Many people were beginning to think she was mute. There was a shyness to her, and she treasured the silence. Not many people respected the benefits of being quiet. A person could learn more about their enemies and friends if they were silent and listened. The witcher seemed to understand this.

Yet, the two were not always quiet. When the male witcher had enough beer in him, he would lapse into tales of various monsters he had defeated. Laelithra had found the stories fascinating. Mostly, it was because it reminded her of her father. There was a small part of her that liked to imagine her father like that. A smile graced her face.

"It's somewhat oily," Geralt said. "Nenneke warned me many times to hurry because she was not going to keep the girls in the kitchen all day." An ugly smile spread across his face. Once more, Laelithra marveled at how young it made the witcher look. Geralt placed the knife and fork onto the plate. Like her father used to do, he shoved the plate with the fork and knife across the stone table.

His words relaxed her. They had had that effect since she met him. Without a word, she placed the fork and knife beside the plate and picked up the chicken leg. The grease ran down her fingers, coating her hands. She did not mind the oil, and the fact that Geralt cooked the chicken made it taste better in her mind. The young girl smiled widely in a way that only young child could. He seemed to understand her, and he respected the parts of her she gave him. To Laelithra, the witcher sitting opposite her had hung the moon.

He stood and looked across the table at the small girl, but he remained silent. It was a ritual for the both of them. Laelithra knew it would not be long before he would disappear into the kitchen, fetch a tankard of goat's milk, and a thin slice of bread that they would share. To the young girl, it was strange to watch him do this. What was his motive? Geralt did not have to take care of her like her father did. She was not bound to him.

As he left her, she followed him cautiously with her eyes. The witcher was a good man. He was a fair companion because he never beat her or did anything worse to her. There was still a part of her that questioned why he was doing all that for her. What would taking care of an orphan do for him? No one did anything because they were being kind. However, her mind whispered about how she stood up to the alpor against the fear and confusion that consumed her. Perhaps, he cared about her too.

She placed the bone against her lips, pulled the stringy meat away with her front teeth, and chewed carefully. Laelithra sucked on the greasy chicken, pulling the flavors from it. Her eyes stayed glued to the door Geralt had disappeared into.

….........

For fifteen minutes, Laelithra was alone. Once more, she tried to figured out what it was about Geralt that had made her follow him that rainy day. It was unlike her to put her faith in another person since her father has died. Yet, did that, continued to do that, she continued to do that with the witcher. She still did not understand the reasons behind it. Was it because he reminded her of her father? Perhaps, it was his demeanor. Because he was calm and confident, it rubbed off on the young girl as charcoal to paper.

She set the piece of leg bone down. The muscle and skin had been completely gnawed off of it, leaving no traces of meat. The taste of the chicken was not spectacular. In fact, it tasted bland and oily. However, her stomach did not growl anymore. Hunger was a thing of the past for the small child. Laelithra did not worry about when the next time she would eat was going to be. Since her arrival to the temple, she had eaten with Geralt regularly. It had became a routine for the two. They would spend most of the day apart. However, she would miss him, stumble into the kitchen around mid-day, and have breakfast with him. Immediately, she frowned. Of course, she knew she was becoming attached to the male witcher. Attachments led to misery and pain.

Laelithra did not notice his return, as she was lost in thought. He sat a chipped, wooden tankard glass filled with a liquid as white as hair. The milk coated the sides of the cup.

Instantly, he sat down across from her and placed his hands behind his head. Geralt moved, lifted his legs, and placed his feet on the table. Next, he crossed his boots. He leaned back in the chair comfortably. His golden eyes searched her face, looking for something that was not there.

A strange feeling developed deep within her breast. She returned his gaze, and did not shrink away like most children would to him. From the look in his eyes, she could tell what was going to come next. Tingles of anticipation raced through her body. Lifting her cup, she drank the milk deeply. The taste was slightly sweet. Beneath the sweetness, a salty undertone spread throughout her mouth. Laelithra loved the rich texture of the liquid.

"Drowners and drowned dead," he began. His face pulled into a look of contempt. She could tell that he was disgusted by what he called drowners and drowned dead, yet the young child did not hold any love for them either. Before she could answer him, he continued, "Sometimes executioners throw the bodies of hanged criminals into a canal, lake, or river. The shells of the bodies rise due to the weight of the person's crimes in life. Sometimes, they are born from magical abortions. They all have one thing in common. Their spirits can not rest. The drowner and drowned dead can only be found at night. They are easily recognized. Slime covers their greenish bodies completely."

She sat still listening to him. Within, she wondered why he was giving her this information. After all, she was going to be with him. Geralt would protect her from the human and non-human monsters. Laelithra would not have to go back to the life she once led. Her eyes turned dark as she gazed at him.

"The drowner and drowned dead are very sensitive to silver," Geralt continued. "One drowner is not much of a challenge. Because the creature is an agile opponent, you must make sure your blade strokes are equally quick."

Laelithra remembered the brief time that Viktor had taught her about the drowners.

"_This is why Addan Anye is key to the successful defeat of a drowner. The blade will make small nicks and cuts, yet, you will eventually bleed it into submission. Do you remember what Addan Anye means, my child?" Viktor stood with a large heavy bag. The bag quivered against his side as an ominous scratching sound came forth from it. _

"_It is the Fiery Dancer. It favors speed over strength. The ideal swordsman becomes like a flame, hitting successfully and not getting hit herself. It is better to be fast than it is to be slow. A quick opponent can bleed me until I collapse. Will I ever be as fast as you, Father?"_

_Viktor smiled, slightly. "Doubtful, my child." With one hand he handed her the silver sword. The steel gleamed in the moonlight that raced along its edges with soft white fire. Runes ran down the flat of the blade, gleaming in the milky light. She could not read the words. He had never taught her neither to read nor to write common or elder. Laelithra had never asked why. Perhaps, he wished her to remain dumb or to have to count on his help for the rest of her life. He had only taught her monster names._

_The silver sword felt light in her hands. The difference between the training swords and runic sword was shocking. As she swiped through the air, she marveled at the speed. It was unusual to her. A part of her wondered why her father had given her the sword he had forbidden her for so long. What was it he planned to do? _

_Immediately, a fear crept into the heart of the young girl. Whatever it was her father wished of her would require her to use a real weapon. It was part of their training. She had learned to use a steel sword against him during their sparring. Numerous times, she could see him glow with pride at the rate at which she learned something. The training was becoming easier for her now, since she was now four and half._

_However, he had told her numerous times to not touch the silver blade. The metal in the blade was soft and delicate. In fact, he had wrapped it in the softest fur he could find. Addan Bloede, Bloody Dancer, was the witcher's most prized possession. Laelithra held the slender, dark hilt in her hands and felt the supple leather caress her palms. Her gaze darkened as she looked into her father's brilliant, azure slitted eyes. She was unsure of what he wanted, and she was scared._

_Viktor was never frightened, and Laelithra tried to be like her father in many ways. Shame spread through her at her own cowardice, claiming her with its thick, black tendrils. Her father was a special swordsman, and he never needed to be afraid. In her wildest dreams, she would never be as good as he was._

_The scratching from the cloth hit a crescendo. Claws scraped against the burlap sack, echoing in the cool, spring night air. The night flowers were just starting to open and send forth their sweet fragrances. "No, you will never be as fast as myself. Yet, you will need to be agile." He paused once more. With his other hand, he pulled away the cord from the bag. The material slithered down to the ground. "Starting now. Remember, do not make me regret."_

_A green wrinkled creature stood on its spindly legs. Globs of slime rolled off the body in thick plops. Clumps of weeds stuck in the ooze, making the beast shimmer in the moonlight. Its forelimbs stayed at its side. Light, glassy eyes stared out of a fetid face. More than half of the beast's face had been removed. By what, Laelithra did not know. Crusted, blunted fingernails clicked in anticipation. Laelithra could not understand the grunting sounds that resembled an archaic form of language. Even drowners had to have a way of speaking, she mused to herself._

_She did not charge the creature. While she was aggressive, the young girl was not foolish. Her father did train her to react on instinct, but there was a difference between instinct and eagerness. Instinct was watching an opponent's movements and knowing what they were going to do next. Eagerness was allowing the battle lust to consume one's self, causing a person to be careless. In fact, eagerness would almost always lead to a dead swordsman. _

_She placed her rear foot behind her and firmly planted it. She smoothly moved into the en guard stance, keeping her eyes on the creature before her. This was it. Laelithra knew the sadistic tendencies of Viktor. He would expect her to succeed, or he would expect her to die. There were no shades of grey when it came to him. There was only black and white. All of her training up that point had culminated into one single event: the destruction of the drowner. Laelithra would not die because she would not disappoint her father._

_With a wet hiss that sounded like death itself, the creature charged the young girl. Its agility surprised her. As it ran, globs of ooze shed from it and landed on tree trunks, flowers, and grass. Its yellow, square teeth gnashed together rhythmically. _

_As it ran, Laelithra's eyes narrowed. There was something off about the way the creature moved. While she did not encounter a drowner before, she did stumble across some wild life in their private corner of the world. Normal, healthy animals did not move with a lanky gate. The young girl bent her legs and kept her body loose as she continued to examine the beast. _

_Realization struck her at the same time the drowner was upon her. Because her father had made one of its thighs lame, it would not be a fair fight. Immediately, the creature extended its forearms and reached for her. It wished to drag her back to its watery grave. Yet, a pond was far from where they lived. If she was not in the throes of combat, she would have wondered where he got such a foul beast._

_Instinctively, she moved into an In Quartara. She turned on the inside, concealing her front. However, this swift movement had exposed her back to the creature. A part of her hoped it would fall for such a simple trick._

"_If you think Laelithra, you will die. Prove to me that I made the right choice, girl. It is not too late to dispose of you and chose your brother. In fact, he would find this easier than you because he is a boy," Viktor called over the growling, grunting, and other noises of the drowner. His eyes shone with malcontent._

_I am better than some boy, she thought. Anger and hatred built up inside, focused at her father. She proved to him many times that she could do anything that her brother, or any boy, could. Of course, she was smaller built, yet she used her size to become agile. However, it was a constant burden in her life to prove that her father did not make the wrong choice. _

_Once more, the slimy beast renewed its attack. It swung its arms at the young girl, attempting to bring her down with a wild blow. After all, she was the weaker of the two._

_Acting on an instinct that she did not realize she had, Laelithra dropped a hand to the ground and lowered herself beneath the arms of the beast. At the same time, she extended her sword arm. Addan Bloede gleamed in the moonlight, silver with the wrath of the young girl. She could feel the ooze drip off of its arms and plop into her platinum hair, and a revolting smell nearly overcame her. Using the rage bellowing inside of her, she thrust the blade forward._

_The beast's eyes bulged, and it opened its wide mouth in an agonizing scream. As long as she could remember, Laelithra would never forgot the beast's unholy screech. Thick, ebony blood burst from its abdomen, dribbling down the stomach of the creature and getting lost in the weeds surrounding its waist. _

_When the beast started to writhe in a death throe, it toppled over on the young girl. As she was caught off-guard, her father's sword was wrenched from her grasp. Soon, the young girl found herself on her back. She was surrounded by the stink and slime, and pinned by the weight of the drowner. Laelithra's breaths came out in shallow puffs. The young girl did not need to know what was going to happen; she was being crushed alive. Yet, it was not the only thing the foul creature had in mind._

_Driven on by wickedness, it lowered its head to the only part of her body it could reach. She could not move her arm away from the drowner. It's saliva dripped on her arm, escaping from its mouth full of yellow, crooked teeth. While the teeth could not do much to her father, she knew they could harm her. _

_The little girl cried out in pain as the beast bit down on the flesh of her arm. Blood flowed freely from her, mixing on the ground. Tiny white flowers blanketed the ground as her life dulled them a red. Nothing existed in the world but the drowner and the hurt of the girl._

_Suddenly, the head of the beast lurched forward. The act caused its teeth to drag on her arm, shredding the flesh. Yet, she watched the drowner's head roll off of its shoulders, down her own shoulder and chest, and bounced along the ground. It came to rest before a stump of the tree. Over the headless corpse, she looked into eye's the color of the sky on a clear day._

"_Worthless," he spewed at her. In his hand, he held a rag. It was an old piece of cloth, and Laelithra recognized the fabric from one of her old dresses. When she had outgrown the majority of her clothes, Viktor had complain about the problems of her being a girl again. This had shamed Laelithra, causing her to feel pity for him. If she was a boy, she could do everything better. She could train properly. Yet, he had chosen her over her brother, Leviticus. What was the reason, she wondered._

_In his other hand, he held a bottle filled with foul-smelling liquids. She knew the bottle contained the ground herbs from his strange garden. The herbs that she was forbidden from eating. What was he going to do with the bottle?_

_She blinked as the blood loss made her feel light headed. Blood roared in her ears, confusing her brain. For a moment, Laelithra thought he had poured some of the elixir on the cloth._

_He knelt beside her, and her heart nearly burst. Her father had never knelt for anyone. He was a proud and foolish man. The peasants feared him, but none knew him. Viktor placed the cork back into the bottle and set it next to them. With his free hand, he took the headless corpse by its shoulder and pulled it off of her._

_At once, she felt like she could breathe again. Yet, the blood still flowed freely from her. She was in danger of dying from blood loss. The young girl could not think as her mind clouded. Immediately, she whimpered in pain as he placed the cloth on the wound. Because whatever was on the piece of cloth burned her injury, she gritted her teeth. He had told her the garden was off-limits. It made her very ill after she had a few nibbles of the leaves. Slowly, it dawned on her. Viktor was trying to kill her because she had failed him._

"_There is not enough on there to kill you," he said. _

_Briefly, she wondered if he could read her mind, or if her father would lie. Then, the young girl fell into darkness._

"-is why when there is a group of them one switches to the Viroledan Naev'de Feaine Glaeddyv," Geralt continued. He sat in the chair across from her. His hair obscured most of his face from view.

"Geralt?"

He looked up. "Mhm?"

"Why are you telling me all of this?" she asked him. Of course, she was curious. Why did she need the information if he was going to be there? The young girl did not dream of being separated from him.

"Because I am leaving you here." If she had suspected excuses, she was disappointed. He did not have any. In fact, it was not even a request.

"No, I'm coming with you."

"No, I do not know these creatures or the organization that hunt you. You are safest here." His eyes took on a cold, penetrating quality to them. She felt small, insignificant under his stare. Just as suddenly as the look came, it vanished. "Besides, I often think Nenneke could keep an army away with force of will alone." A faint smile crossed his lips.

She did not think of how much younger he looked, or of how the scars on his face smoothed out because he smiled. A slow stubbornness overcame her soul. "No. I don't want to stay here. I want to come with you," she pleaded, desperately. Tears leaped into her eyes as her voice cracked.

If she thought tears would have soften him, she was mistaken. The witcher did not answer her.

"Please?"

"No." It was a simple answer.

Yet, she could tell his response was not up for debate. He meant to leave her there, for her to learn from the priestesses, to be an initiate herself. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the witcher. How could he leave her there? How could he expect her to defend herself? Her tiny chest rose and fell in heavy puffs. As the intensity thickened, she gritted her teeth.

Immediately, she turned and fled from the refectory. To Laelithra's credit, she did not understand what he did was to protect her. He had other things to worry about other than an orphan. Yet, all that ran through the child's mind was that monsters do exist, and Geralt was one of them.

….........

_**The White Wolf will die, Child of Viktor. He is in the way, and he will be dealt with in the way my kind deals with his. Make no mistake, child, he will die.**_

_She saw a blinding light flash before her eyes. Her head throbbed and agony exploded throughout her brain. Immediately, her small body collapsed to the floor._

_Blood. Terror. Darkness._

Laelithra bolted upright in the small bed. Her heart pounded in her chest. She lifted her hand and brushed off the beads of sweat collecting on her skin. She tried to remember what was in her dream that had caused her such pains. If it woke her up, it had to be extremely important. No one dreamed things just to dream them. Every dream had symbolism, and every image had a different meaning. In her case, every image and dream was a premonition of what would happen in the future.

As she searched for the image or any thing resembling the feeling of the dream, she sighed roughly. It was lost to her, and she was left with her heart fluttering. The only piece of the dream she remembered was that she had to warn someone of a trap. But who?

Frustration mounted in her. She pushed the brown covers off of her and moved towards the edge of the bed. Her hair swung into her face, hiding her dark eyes, small nose, and lips. With one hand, she pushed the platinum mass back and grimaced. Her body and hair were slick with sweat. Immediately, she placed the palms of her hands on her face and sobbed into them.

Much had happened to the little girl since the death of her father, yet there was a bright place in the darkness of her life: Geralt. Then, she remembered he was going to leave her. She would be alone. There would be no-one to protect her, no-one to talk to, or no-one to rely on. Utterly alone. The sobs came louder and more clear. Tears traced down her cheek, getting lost between her fingers. She sat there for a moment, losing herself in the misery assaulting her heart.

Then, she lifted her head. He might have been leaving her to stay in the temple. In fact, he might leave tomorrow or the next day. He would pack the Roach and journey to places she could not follow. Would he return for her? Geralt told her they would find out who the Arcani and Jhaer were? Did he lie? Would he lie to her? Laelithra did not think he would, yet, she did not really know him.

None of it mattered at that moment. The fear crept over her heart again, causing the small hairs on the back of her neck to stand straight up. There was no need to be frighten or alone. He had not left yet. She lifted her head and stared out into the darkness in quiet contemplation. Her dark eyes glimmered, adjusting to the pitch black of the room. Slowly, she could see in muted, dark grey shapes.

As she placed her small feet on the stone floor, she shivered. It was more from the remnants of a dream she could not understand nor remember than anything else. The floor felt cold, and the pebbles ground into the arches of her feet. A chilly breeze drifted through her room from an open window. Once more, she shivered. Still, it was from neither the cold of the floor nor that of the breeze.

He was going to leave her, and she would be alone again. Laelithra stared at the blurry image of the dresser before the bed. If she left first, he couldn't leave her. She bit the corner of her mouth, thinking quietly. Suddenly, she realized it would not work. She was reluctant to leave the temple or the witcher. To be honest, she doubted she could make it in a world without someone anymore. Geralt would not have noticed her leave because his type never did.

Guilt spread throughout her body. She should not even have considered leaving. It was obvious that Geralt had thought of her. While their meeting by the road was chance, she was brought to the temple for a reason. Was it to learn, to hear, or something else entirely different?

A brief image of her father flashed before her eyes, causing the young girl into shrink in the darkness. On the nights that she could remember, she felt alone. Even though the world was in war, no one could know the desperation the little girl felt. It was that way with grief. Laelithra thought she would mourn him forever, but then Geralt came. Was it a sign?

Laelithra stood up from of the bed. Her heart thumped in her throat. She did not want to stay in the room any longer. It felt as if the shadows had tendrils, clinging to her every fear. No, she did not want to stay there. Slowly, she would go insane from the overwhelming tension of the small room.

She wrapped her arms around her chest. As she imagined being alone, her breathing increased. The little girl panted quickly. Her heart raced, sounding like a sprinting horse. A thin veil of sweat covered her flesh. She could not stop her body from trembling as she held herself tighter.

Stop, her mind screamed at her. A part of her tried to reassure herself. Was it really as bad as she felt it was? Not being able to remember her dreams coupled with being left behind was causing her pains. There was no way out.

After she took a deep breath, she tried to cease her fretting. However, her mind would not be sated without knowing what her dream entailed. The sweat still glistened on her skin. Her mind still buckled with anxiety. She still shook.

She needed someone tonight. Her father had passed on, and she could not go to him. Yet, there was another one she cared about just as deeply. He had threatened to leave, but he was not gone yet.

Immediately, she took a step towards the door. No, Geralt was not gone yet.

….........

The soft pattering of her feet echoed down the length of the hallway. Her feet felt every cold, sharp pebble making up the long stone floor leading the way to where her salvation lay. Candles lit her way barely. A sweet scent drifted down the corridor, enveloping around the young child. The incense was meant to comfort the weary soul.

Yet, Laelithra could not find solace either in her soul or the scent. When the nightmares surfaced, she whimpered for her father. Laelithra missed him. It dawned on her she had transferred her views of her father onto Geralt. Was that the reason she could not bear to part from him? She tried not to cry and tried to understand the reasoning behind his departure. Her father had taught her to be brave like he was. Shaking her head, she tried to do that now. Not crying, understanding his reasoning, and having courage were the toughest things she could do. Would she ever be what Viktor visioned her to be? Would she be strong and fast as he was? Of course, she knew it was unlikely. Viktor was a witcher, and she was human.

Laelithra looked up at the door looming before her. She did not think that anything could look so foreboding and inviting at the same time. Frowning, she tried to quiet the doubts coursing through her mind. What if he did not wish her there? Embarrassment surged through her body as she thought about the last time she saw the witcher. The young girl had fled from him, believing him to be a monster. What if there was someone with him? Most of the girls and women at the temple had noticed the male witcher. Some had whispered things and giggled about him. Laelithra neither understood the things they said, nor why they blushed around him. Geralt was a man. Nothing more.

As another wisp of cold air brought her out of her thoughts, she looked once more at the large door; the brown wooden door set inside a grey stone archway. It looked like any other door in the large temple, yet it held her hopes and fears inside. She raised her hand to knock, but doubt ceased her actions. What would happen if he was angry? Laelithra knew he rarely lost his temper with her. Her defiance had surfaced a few times with him, and he had handled her. The witcher was kind to her. For the millionth time, she had to ask herself why. When had she become reliant upon his support? Relying on Geralt, or anyone, was dangerous. People disappointed her more times than not.

Slowly, she lowered her hand. She would not come to rely on the witcher for protection or emotional comfort. It was a need she could not afford. Since her father died, it was Laelithra against the world. The young girl did not need anyone else. Her eyes teared up, but she knew what she needed to do. He was leaving her, anyway. Perhaps, she would leave first. Quickly, she turned away.

Suddenly, the door opened. He stood there. His white hair tumbled over his face, framing his sharp features. Molten eyes stared at her in surprise, tiredness claiming the corners. Thin lips were set in a scowl. The dimming candle-light framed him, illuminating his flat, small, dusky nipples and every muscle in his upper torso. White linen trousers covered his hips and thighs. "Laelithra? What's wrong?"

A blush entered the young girl's cheeks. She had seen her father in various stages of undress, yet he had always worn his leather trousers. Laelithra had never seen a man in his undergarments. Geralt was the first. Her mind weighed her options as she stared at the witcher's face. Say something, she thought. Flee to your room, her thoughts commanded her, but she stood there as still as death itself.

"Laelithra, come in here. Did you have another dream?" his voice rumbled with the edges blunted by sleep.

She heard his voice, and she still could not find her own. There was one thing she could not stand to do, though. The young girl could not stand outside the room, wallowing in her embarrassment. "No..Yes. I can not remember what," she replied. Laelithra was sure her face was as red as an apple. Without so much as a glance to Geralt, she stepped past him.

Either the witcher was an oracle, or he was decent at reading other people. He knew how she felt. Geralt chuckled. The sound echoed through the cold, stone room. It warmed her insides. He was laughing at her misfortune. Immediately, he went to the side of the bed and picked up the leather pants thrown carelessly on the floor. "You have never seen your father-"

Laelithra stared up at one of the paintings hanging on the wall. She was sure he was teasing her. Was it some sort of revenge for her outburst at lunch? Would the floor swallow her so she could forget about this uncomfortable moment? The young girl hoped so. "No," she answered, nervously. As she heard the rustle of his clothing, she tried to command the blush to leave her face. "Father was more concerned with my training."

She heard him sit on the bed. "I have been kind to you, and I thought you would tell me on your own time. However, our time together grows short. If I am going to help you with figuring out this organization, this Arcani, I need to know how Viktor died. There might be a connection."

Laelithra knew he would demand to know someday. However, she was not prepared to answer that request so soon. Her face paled. She turned to face him, locking her dark eyes onto his golden ones. "Father and I traveled in the warmer seasons. There was always a monster, a town, some coin to be made. More often than not, he would accept work without worrying about a payment. When he did, it was enough to allow us to survive and keep his weapons and armor maintained." It was what did not make sense to Geralt's analysis of Viktor. He worked to help people. Most of the time, he did it for free. How was that hating humanity?

She watched the witcher's eyes harden at the statement. Laelithra did not understand what her father was doing at the time. It was against what Geralt did. However, he did not say anything and allowed her to continue.

"During winter, Father and I stayed at his house. The cottage was secluded. Although the townspeople would come across us rarely, they were friendly. It was rare for them to judge us. When the very few crowns Father had collected during the warmer seasons ran dry, he would go into town for work." It was one of the reasons she found the peasants who attacked Geralt and her on the road strange. Her experience with villagers and witchers was skewed. If she had only known.

The witcher was silent.

"One winter's night, a new snow had fallen. It coated the branches of the trees surrounding our home. As a cold wind blew, a knock came from our door. There were three men. When father was working, a creature moved into the town. The beast was controlling the town's men, and her want for blood was unequal. Father could never say no. Taking his sword, he went to confront this monster who tricks men." She stared off into space as she recounted the past. Her body felt numb as she talked.

"The vampire proved to much and killed him?"

"No. I do not know what injured him. For me, it started with those damn flowers he forbade me to touch. Those were always off limits to me. However, they were so pretty, and I could not help myself." Her gaze went to the table, looking at the open pages of cults. The words did not make sense to her. It was just squiggly lines. She remained silent, reliving that awful day.

_Icicles hung off of the rafters. Snow blanketed the roof and window sills. A freezing wind howled past her, chilling her to the bone. Looking at the snow covering the ground, she frowned. Thick bootprints dented the soft, powdery snow. In the middle of the footprints, blood was splattered in large circles. For a brief moment, she thought of fleeing into the woods and going into town for help. She was alone. What could a young girl do? _

_Yet, Viktor's training emerged in the young girl. If someone was in the house and she went to get help, they could take whatever they wanted. No, the young girl would not run away and hide. Laelithra would not let anyone disturb her father's work or steal from him. Immediately, she bent down by the entrance of the ajar door. _

_The young girl picked up an elongated icicle. The ice stuck to her skin as she gripped it with one of her hands. Looking through the slim, clear weapon, she saw the blood drops magnify. Her father had told her that any object could be used as a weapon in her hands. In fact, he listed a variety of normal objects he used to protect himself with at one point. Something as delicate and fragile as ice could be turned into a lethal object if the right amount of pressure was applied to it._

_Fear clung to her body, making her hackles raise up. Next, shame followed closely behind the terror. Her father would not have been afraid. He would have drank from a vial of herb-infused alcohol. Viktor had called them elixirs. Then, he would have entered the house and confronted what lay in wait for him inside. The man was never frightened. _

_In her other hand, she gripped the wild flowers she had collected. It was the reason she had left the small cottage in the first place. Viktor had told her to stay out of his special garden many times. If she either ingested or touched any plants, the oil or plant itself could prove enough to kill the young girl. However, she could not hold back her nature. She was curious. It was what made her a good pupil._

_Stepping inside the house, her heart nearly stopped. Blood was smeared along the floor, making the wood appear luminescent with a tinge of red. Laelithra had worked hard the previous day. Her father had ordered her to scrub the entire floor, oil his weapons and armor, and stuff the training targets with straw before stitching them. That maleficent day was supposed to be spent in quiet reflection of how her training would effect her life in the future. It was ironic. As long as she could remember, she would never forget the scene she walked into._

_A sweet, woody incense floated through the wooden home. Before she had left to collect her flowers in the wilderness surrounding the cottage, she had burned it. Laelithra knew her father should have returned that day. It had been five days since the peasant men had come to their home, pleading the witcher's help. The two, daughter and father, would meditate together. Viktor had found it easier to keep the young girl's meditative state with the use of aids. The wood was one of those additional props that helped her. Now, it permeated the entire dwelling._

_Another scent accompanied the sweet smell. It was pungent, and she could not place it at first. Her stomach rolled over on itself as she pushed further into the house. The last time she smelled something like that was when her father was injured. It was like death itself had come to her home, and she gagged._

_As she went through each room, following the large blood trail, she gripped the icicle hard. The cold bit into her hand, causing her fingers and palm to become numb. She ignored it because she had to. Her father's things were important to him. They consisted of papers he had from before he had taken her brother and her that fateful day, weapons, and various armor._

_A sharp, masculine grunt woke her from her thoughts. She had heard the sound before. When her father worked in the seasons and when she was asleep curled up in bed at night, she would often hear the moaning. It would rumble with pleasure. Now, there was no pleasure involve. It did not make her curious. No, it sounded as if there was an animal injured inside of her home. Once more, the fear clung to her heart. If there was a beast, the young girl could not overpower it. Laelithra would die._

_Inside the main room, shock hit her. It punched into her gut. At first, she wondered if she had lost her mind. After all, it was quite possible because her father had not given her meat in a very long time. There were times when she craved the sustenance that only a predator could understand. Still, her father forbade her any._

_Quickly, both weapon and flowers dropped to the floor. Her breath htched inside of her throat, and she could not exhale. Because of the powder from the flower on her hands, she did not rub her eyes. Yet, she had to fight with herself not to._

_Her father sat on the floor with his back propped against the legs of one of their wooden chairs. She could not see his blue, slitted eyes as his grey hair covered his face. Blood stained his normally white shirt red. There were no spots where the white shone through. Several holes appeared in the shirt and the shredded jerkin beside him. The blackish-red pool of liquid spread around him in a circle._

"_Father!"_

_He moved, wheezed in pain, and coughed. Viktor of Vizima did not look up at her. A good amount of his hair was matted to his face. It was slicked with gore and tinted red. She could see the chunks of black in it. A putrid smell came from the wounds. _

"_Father, please let me help you. I will mix a white myrtle, hellebore, and celandine paste. It will ease your pain and stop the blood flow," she said, fearfully. Tears clung to her eyelashes, her breath came out shaky, and her hands trembled. Her mind cried out, thinking of anything that could help the man injured before her._

"_No. This is my final lesson to you...daughter," he replied, stubbornly. Even fatally injured, Viktor was still stubborn and her mentor. He lifted his gaze to hers, boring deep within her soul. He placed his hand on his bloodstained shirt and lifted it weakly. Blood and gore dripped from it. "This is the ultimate fate of my kind, Laelithra. It was chosen for me when I was first given the Trials, and it is what is intended for you." Once more, he stopped and wheezed._

_Her eyes flared defiantly. This was not what fate had decided for her. She would not be the subject of a predetermined destiny. "It is not what destiny has prepared for me. I will not become like you are, Father."_

_The old man smiled and laugh. More blood spilled from his wounds. After the weak and feeble laugh, he coughed violently. His gasping increased and spittle flew from his mouth. "Child, it is what you are. You can not fight destiny like I have shown you. Destiny can not be slain by sword and hope. We were mutated to slay monsters for money, for the protection of innocence. If the world as we know it ended, we would still be there until a beast more powerful than us slays us." His eyes turned glassy, and he stared out into space. Briefly, the young girl wondered if he had passed on. Yet, he stirred once more. "No, child. It is our destiny."_

_His words felt like a noose tightening around her neck, cutting off what little breath she had left. It was not her destiny. She was not mutated as he was. The wheezing of the the old man cut at her heart. Tears leaked from her eyes again. With her arm, she wiped them away._

"_I can no longer train you, daughter. There are forces at work here that you do not understand. Your learning with me has ended. Yet, there are others who could train you." His eyes took the far off look once more. It was as if he was remembering something that the young girl did not have privy to. "Find the key to my study. Inside, you will find manuscripts scattered on my desks. You will need those. In fact, you will know what to do with them when the time comes. Also, my amulet is in the top drawer. Get it." He coughed once more. This time, he shook as he coughed. His wheezes were intensifying, and a frothy blood lined his lips._

_Laelithra knelt beside the man on one knee. The blood smeared onto her dress, staining it. Her eyes burned with tears. Her destiny, as her father put it, sank deep within her chest. Fear engulfed her. She did not utter a word._

"_Make towards the river Buina. Then follow the Gwenllech. Stay off the roads, child." The man moved, unbuckling the thick straps across his chest. He grunted in pain as he moved, sliding the sheath from his back. Inside the lizard-skin sheath was his silver sword. The silver handle of Addan Bloede shone against the brown leather wrappings. With effort, her father withdrew the blade. It leaped into his hands as if wanting to avenge the fallen witcher. Viktor pushed the sword into her hands. Even as she pulled away from his touch, he enclosed her fingers around the handle. It was the last act the old man would make before darkness consumed his body, mind, and soul._

Laelithra blinked as she finished her tale. Tears threatened to consume the young child again. Remembering the terrible day her father died had left the young girl physically drained. Her breath came out quickly as the tears spilled over her cheeks. She drew the blankets around her. Briefly, she wondered when she had gotten into the bed.

Geralt held her close to his chest. She could feel the light, wiry chest hair cushion her cheek. With his free hand, he pressed her head to him, refusing to let her move. It was an act that her father had done when the nightmares had consumed her on so many nights. With his other hand splayed on her back, she sighed deeply. The calloused hands felt strong and protective. Those hands had defeated many monsters, both human and non-human. Right now, they kept the dreams and memories away by strength of will alone. His sharp chin rested on the top of her head.

If Laelithra thought he would comment about her father's death, she was wrong. He was silent as he always was, yet, there was something healing to the silence. It was something that only she and Geralt could appreciate. Soon, her eyes felt heavy as she felt sleep calling for her once more.

….........

Something was wrong.

Laelithra lifted her head as she blinked her eyes. For a brief moment, she wondered where she was. While the room bore a resemblance to her own room, there were several key differences.

On the dark, wooden dresser, there several books lay. On top of the pile, the _Wonderful World of Insectoids _lay open. The rest were a hodgepodge of titles ranging from herbal information to monster lore. Most were titles the young girl could not understand or read in some cases. Her father had taught her to recognize certain words and phrases. Most had to do with monsters. Others were ferns, flowers, and herbs. None were useful to her. She wondered why he would teach her those unnecessary things. Next to the books, an open container lay. The smell was pungent and left her feeling light headed. The only combination of plants that did that to the young child was eucalyptus and mint. When combined into a paste, it could be used to treat wounds. She wondered if wounds could be healed in that way. Absentmindedly, she touched her cheek. The plump priestess had spread the paste on her skin after stitching the wounds caused by the peasants thrown rocks.

Another smell drifted to her. It was heavily male: woody. The scent enveloped the bed clothes, surrounding her in a primal childish emotion. She felt safe in the comfort of the bed, within the aroma. Much later in her life, she would associate the scent with Geralt and warm sensations would engulf her stomach. Presently, it comforted her. Nothing evil could penetrate the security of that bedchamber.

A tiny warning ballooned in her chest. Laelithra did not want this. Seeking the security of the male witcher could only lead to disaster. The young girl could not rely on him. It was not just Geralt. She could not rely on anyone because people had always let her down. It was only a matter of time before a person's true nature was revealed. Yawning, she let her thoughts drift to the male witcher. Staying here as he asked her to would require one thing she did not know if she could give it: trust. Could she blindly trust Geralt? Yes, he had shown her generosity, and she had become close to him, yet could she trust him completely? How could she know if he wanted something from her at a later point in time? Trust...it was something she had given freely before her solitary traveling had wrenched the feeling from the small girl.

However, a small part of her relished the feelings blossoming in her bosom. It had been some time since she felt warm and safe. There were no hard stones biting in her back, deep snow freezing her toes, or merchants tempting her with meat. Also, there were no nights were she wondered if she would be alive in the morning. In the temple with _him_, she felt things she had not felt since before her father had passed on.

What would be the harm in letting him care for her while he was at the temple, her mind whispered, enticingly. She resented the thought of depending on someone. It left a hole burning deep within her belly. Laelithra could not depend on anyone. The only one she could depend on was herself. The thoughts consumed her, bringing forth a whine from deep within her soul. It felt good to have someone worried about her best interests.

Laelithra shifted towards him. In the night, he must have moved to the other side of the bed. Would it have been wrong to let him care for her while he was here? What harm could come of it, the words blew across her mind like a balm. With him, she could be a small child again. She could recapture a part of her shattered childhood. Terror knotted her stomach. The young girl did not have anyone to depend on since her father. It was a horrifying experience to look to someone else for her well-being, yet, she could not stop the feelings. With a surprised shudder, she realized she had already depended on the witcher. The young child had already depended on him for emotional and physical protection.

Immediately, the five year old reached for the witcher who had become her world. The linen sheet felt cool against her palm as she stretched, wishing to touch the one who had become like a father to her. Her hand raced along the smooth surface of the thin blanket, over the down pillow, and to the witcher. She did not feel him. In fact, she felt nothing. There was no one in bed with her.

Suddenly, she jerked upright and sat with her fingers curled around the top of the sheet. Geralt did not tell her that he was leaving. He did not say goodbye. The only thing remaining was the woodsy scent of the witcher. Anguish flooded throughout her, cutting deeply as if it was an arrow piercing her heart. The witcher was gone.

The young child threw back the covers with a whoosing sound. What if she was too late? The thought crossed her mind as she swung her tiny legs from the bed. Anxiety clutched at her heart. Worry rushed over her, making her skin flush. A cold draft traveled across the stone floor and made her toes curl inward. Yet, she pushed the feeling further from her mind. Laelithra said a silent thanks to her father for his teaching of her how to ignore all things unpleasant.

She would not let him slink off like a thief in the night. Quickly, she darted forward. The sound of her feet hitting the floor echoed through the halls of the temple. Gritting her teeth, she ran down the steps to the courtyard, two at a time. The only witness to her hysterical and precise movement was the statues of Melitele. Laelithra floated down the stairs, using her father's training to her benefit.

Her mind criticized her, telling her she should have opened to Geralt sooner. Another part of her questioned if he only stayed around to hear how her father died. Geralt would not do that. Anger mixed with the fear of being left alone. How could he leave without a word? Did he not realize she had come to depend on him?

"Watch out," a novice shouted as Laelithra's elbow jabbed into the side of the woman. The young woman rocked back and forth as the vegetables from her wicker basket spilled onto the stairs. Onions rolled down the stone steps as the blonde haired girl attempted to snatch them. Her clear eyes darkened as she stared at the young child's back.

If the girl thought Laelithra would slow down, she was wrong. It was as if the young child had the King of the Wild Hunt at her back. In truth, she felt like Death itself was chasing her. She frowned, looking at the large, wooden door barring her way to the courtyard. This was the only thing standing in her ways between the witcher and solitude. Could she give it up? If she pursued the male witcher, she would have to compromise her way of life. Townspeople would constantly regard him with more suspicion if he traveled with her. Was it worth it?

She commanded herself to stop her train of thought. The life the young girl led before the witcher was inconsequential to the way he made her feel. Geralt had changed her life. Even if she refused to admit it, she needed him. _There are others who could train you. _Her father's words rang through the caverns of her mind. Immediately, her thoughts settled on the white-haired witcher. He was like her father. Geralt was a witcher. She knew Geralt could understand the training she needed to go through. _There are others who could train you._

The young girl emerged from the temple like a newborn bursting forth from the womb. The sunlight blinded her, causing her to squint her eyes tightly. The pain of the sudden light made her head throb. Red spots danced behind her eyelids. Sweet scents of flowers drifted to her as she forced her eyes open. Birds chirped. However, Laelithra did not notice as she searched for her quarry.

He stood still. The sunlight shone on him, making him appear as a ghostly apparition. His white hair flowed down behind him, stopping in jagged strains on his broad shoulders. Glints of silver sparkled from his black gloves. Behind him, the brown mare was loaded with supplies.

"For Melitele's sake, why won't you stay here? You are not fully recovered yet." The plump priestess placed her hands on her hips, staring up at the witcher. Laelithra knew how stubborn the woman could be, and it endeared the priestess to the young girl.

However, she did not think about what the priestess was talking about. All she cared about was that the person who replaced her father was standing before her. If she said nothing, he would leave. The young girl clenched her teeth together against the fear spreading through her. She could not let Geralt go.

Suddenly, she cried out, "Geralt, wait!!" The sound echoed around the courtyard, seeming coming from all directions. Springing forth, she raced down the outside steps. Her long, thin legs supported her, allowing her to jump from the third step from the bottom and land on her feet. "Don't go!!"

Both of the adults turned towards Laelithra. Surprise flashed across the witcher's face before he could slip his emotionless mask back in place. It was followed by a scowl. When did the witcher not scowl, she thought to herself.

Resolutely, the young girl sprinted towards him. He could not leave her. No, she would not let him leave her. Fear gave way to determination. Once she had stopped before him and the Roach, the little girl stared up at him. She stared up at him and did not make a noise.

Nenneke could see the two needed to talk to each other. A smile crossed her lips at the scene of the little girl standing up to the white-haired witcher. Then, she walked away from the two.

Laelithra continued to stare up at him. Anger flashed in her eyes. "You were going to leave," she growled, accusingly. Her small fists were planted on her hips. The girl was either brave, or incredibly stupid.

"I told you. You are safer here than with me."

She shook her head, grabbed his arm, and stared up at him. The linen shirt felt rough beneath her fingertips. Her mouth set in a grim line, mimicking the witcher's. Both were stubborn, but Laelithra was used to getting her way by now. "No. I am going with you, and you can't stop me. I'll just follow you when you leave." She meant the words.

His golden eyes flared, reminding her of liquid gold. A snarl passed over his face and was lost. Muscles flexed beneath her hand. Laelithra could see a twitch in his jaw. "Do you not know who I am? I am Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. I am a witcher, and I slay monsters for a living."

Their eyes clashed. Anger soared deep within the young girl. "Being a witcher and slaying monsters for coin does not make you a monster," she refuted, coldly. Her voice tried to bite into his emotions. She did not understand the conflict in his decision. To her, there was only one choice of action. He would have to let her go with him.

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Doubt? Sadness? Resentment? Laelithra could not tell. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone. His eyes shone molten gold with fury smoldering in their depths. "Enough! Laelithra, enough," he roared suddenly. It was as if she had goaded a bull. "I'm not a traveling orphanage. The temple is full of girls who have lost their parents in the war. You belong here."

Something within the small child broke. She felt tears surface in her eyes at his words. Swiftly, her hand shot out and connected with his cheek. The slap echoed around the courtyard. Laelithra felt his stubble beneath the palm of her hand. "What do you know about losing your parents? What do you know about blaming yourself for their death? If I could have seen it happen I could have prevented it. His blood was everywhere. I was so scared that the people who killed him would find me."

"Please stop, Laelithra. I apologize."

"If anyone you loved died in your arms, then you would know how I feel. You do not know anything. I can not belong here anymore than you can. Viktor was training me to be a witcher. I don't know why. I was never fast enough or good enough. He threatened to end my life many times because I could not get a simple pirouette right. When he was finally proud of me, he died," the young girl sobbed.

She did not notice Geralt move. Suddenly, she felt his right arm wind itself around her back. It pressed her against his chest, protecting her from the memories of her father and his own looming departure. She heard the deep rumbling of his chest as he breathed, "Shh."

The mare looked upon at the scene as she was lead with the reins by Geralt. Her ears flicked at the display between the two before her.

"I am going to journey with you, Geralt. I have no choice," she cried into the leather of his jerkin. She was surrounded once more by the earthy smell of the witcher. Despite her resistance, it soothed her.

The male witcher did not say anything. He merely stood, holding the reins of the Roach in one hand and Laelithra in the other. She felt the strength of his conviction through his massive embrace. No one could threaten her within the safety of his embrace. His leather jerkin felt rough against her cheek, paradoxically comforting like his calloused fingertips. Everything about Geralt helped to assuage her concerns.

He pushed her away from his embrace. Keeping a hand on her shoulder, he squeezed softly. Geralt's gaze carried a quality unlike any it had before in her presence. There was a predatory look to him, and it sent a chill down Laelithra's spine. She had seen such a look on faces in her past. It was usually accompanied by a request to do something to compensate for the adult's kindness. As her eyes widened, she felt like her insides had frozen solid.

"If you are going to travel with me, then you will do one thing for me," Geralt grumbled. His penetrating, sharp stare bore into her soul. He was the only one who could make her feel naked with just a look. No one else could understand her quite like the witcher. Because of his profession, he was on a solitary path. He was a loner, just like Laelithra.

Here it was at last, Laelithra thought. He would wish repayment for his kindness; grownups always did. Her teeth clenched, gnashing together. She knew it.

Withdrawing his hand from her shoulder, Geralt stepped forward. His boots rang hollowly against the cobblestones paving the roadway. As he moved, the mare moved forward, her hoof beats sounding out loudly. They would not wait on Laelithra. He would always give her the choice of staying with him or striking out on her own. However, Geralt would never tarry for her.

She clenched her tiny fists against her sides. While she was afraid of his cold, penetrating gaze and his rough demeanor, Laelithra could not be without Geralt, never again. Throughout her time with him, she had become reliant on the witcher. He was the one she needed, and he would be the one who would fill her with sorrow if he was murdered. As the hazy light shined down upon him, she made a vow that she would not fail him the way she had failed her father.

As she raced after him, he called over his shoulder, "I want you to do exactly as I say," he commanded, " when I say it." It was a simple request from a simple man.

Laelithra did not care about his restrictions. The only thing she cared about was that she was traveling with the one she now viewed as a father.

Spring was in the air, and she breathed it in deeply. Various floral aromas enveloped her, but the ones that brought her the most comfort were jasmine and cherry blossoms. The sweet scent encircled the two. With joyful abandon, she bounded up onto the stone wall and skipped along, beside the witcher leading his mare.


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Spring faded quickly, giving way to clear, warm June weather.

Laelithra lay still, looking up at the moon twinkling in the sky. She tried to ignore the pain surging through her legs and back. Geralt had sparred with her, pushing the young child to her limit, just as her father had, yet there was one key difference between the men. Geralt knew how much training the girl could withstand. He was always mindful of her health. That night, he wished her to rest, fearing she would become ill due to the change in the weather. Of course, she was stubborn and had insisted she would not.

Suddenly, an intense chill swept through her. She shook inside the bedroll as if someone had thrust a knife into her spine and twisted it. Her teeth clenched together violently, clicking in rhythm with her body's shuddering. The chill froze her to the bone, numbing several parts of her body.

A bright, white light flashed before Laelithra's eyes, causing her to gasp as the pain throbbed. With each thump of her pounding heart, the pain increased in intensity. She shut her eyes tightly and tried to will the sensations to leave her body. The attempt did not succeed. In fact, the diamond shaped, small spots of light continued to dance across the blackness.

She tried to take a deep breath and will the agony away again. The young girl found that she could not. As she breathed in pants, her nose felt as if it was a dam. There would be no relief from the pressure building within her head. At the same time, a small trickle of slimy moisture emerged from the back of her throat. Swallowing the mucus, another painful sensation arced through her. This time it struck her throat. The burning sensation permeated her throat, making it difficult to swallow. Feeling like death warmed over, she closed her eyes.

A cool hand slid over her forehead. The scars on it felt rough against her hot skin. She felt every imperfection in his flesh. Laelithra heard the rush of breath releasing through his nostrils. The whistling of his nose filled her ears.

Immediately, her eyes snapped open. She stared up at him, gazing into the depths of his golden eyes. Her jaw tensed, and she shivered again, causing her to look away. He had warned her about working herself into exhaustion. Shame spiraled throughout the core of her body, coating her insides like a black poison.

In response, the witcher scowled visibly. If she thought he would berate her, she was mistaken. He turned his hand over and stroked her hair. The thin strains of platinum slipped through his fingertips smoothly.

Her eyes widened in surprised as the numbing sensation of his touch dulled the incessant throbbing of her head. The tingling feeling faded when he withdrew his hand, causing her to let out a whine of protest. Of course, she did not want him to stop touching her. His hand made her headache abate. For a brief moment, she wondered why the sensations were so different than when her father stroked her.

He stood. The male witcher continued to stare down at her. His white hair framed his sharp face. Deep lines creased his forehead. Geralt did not say anything; he did not have to. His piercing gaze said more than a thousand words could. Later in their lives, it would still be that way. When one was with another whom they truly cared about, words became a unnecessary. A look could accomplish what words could not. In fact, the only thing words and sentences were was a symbol of an emotion, object, or relationship. Body language would always tell Geralt and Laelithra what the other would not verbally. They would not to be able to hide their true emotions: the frustration, the pride, the want, and the wrath.

A chill overtook the young girl. Her thin, lean arms shook from the freezing sensation traveling through her body. She pulled the blanket over her body until the top rested beneath her chin, yet it did not alleviate the discomfort. The cold clung to her as if her center was made of ice.

Once more, he scowled. Geralt was no court jester. Children who contracted an illness had a fair probability of becoming disfigured. Laelithra was a beautiful child who was living the way she was because of unfortunate events. Because she was so young, Laelithra could apprentice a local seamstress, one of the priestesses of Melitele, or a medic before his recommendation to Oxenfort.

A disfigurement would all but remove any of those social advancement as possibilities for the girl. She would be no better than the dwarves or elves. Children would point at her, hiding their faces in their mothers' skirts. Women would throw rocks, beat her with a broom, and accuse the child of being the spawn of sin. Men would do worse. The evil of men surpassed even the arrogance of the elves. Men would drive her from villages or attempt to harm her. There was one other worse thing they could do. His jaw tensed visibility.

In addition to being outcast, there was one more thing that could happen. Laelithra could die. The cause of the fatal illness could be attributed to many things. The beginnings of a plague had broken out in Temeria. If she had come in contact with a carrier of the sickness, there was no way Geralt could know. He was immune. Really, the only thing he could do was watch for the symptoms and ease her discomfort. The plague was accompanied by headaches, chills, and a fever. Immediately, his brow furrowed. Without a word, he turned and walked away.

She sat up, feeling a tickle in her nose. The sensation ate away at her thoughts until she could think of nothing else. There was nothing she could do. She breathed in and out quickly. Still, the pressure inside of her head built. After a moment or two, she sneezed. Her spittle dripped down the blanket. Once more, her head felt like it was going to explode, and she laid down. Laelithra shut her eyes tightly, trying, once more, to will the pain away.

She could tell that Geralt had returned by the sound of his light footsteps. Occasionally, leaves and twigs would crunch lightly beneath his feet. "Sit up." Simple words from a simple man. It was what endeared the male witcher to her.

Snapping her eyes open, she gazed up at him.

Geralt held several thick animal skins in one arm. She recognized some of them from the animals he had hunted for their food. Laelithra did not understand why he kept the skins of those animals. Summer was too hot for the furs, and more could be collected later for winter.

Draped over the other arm, he had several pieces of clothing. It was a collection of his spare shirts and two nightgowns. In reality, it was all the clothes that the two owned. He spent money on the bare essentials: ale, food, grain for the Roach, shelter, and whores.

With his help, she put on the two nightgowns and two of his shirts. The chills sliced her to the bone. She could not stop shaking. Every time she sneezed, her throat would burn like an inferno, causing her eyes to well up with tears. Laelithra could stop neither the pressure within her head, nor the aching pain in her body.

Throwing the blankets over her, he frowned. "I'll be back soon," he said. "Get some rest."

….........

She did not know how long it had been since the white haired witcher had disappeared into the surrounding forest. Laelithra stared into the flames of their campfire as they danced along the charred, bubbling wood. The glow highlighted locks of her platinum hair, making them shimmer an ethereal orange. Many thoughts echoed through her mind. Had her father envisioned her death, alone before a campfire, when he had sought to train her?

Before he began feeding her strange herbs from the age of three to the age of six, the young girl was rarely sick. After eating the ferns and mosses, she had experienced intense pain, vomiting, and diarrhea. Through the agony, she thought she was going to die. Every moment of the day, she would shake. Her insides cried out in anguish. Each organ felt at odds with the rest of her body. Finally, she would give in to her body and throw up.

In her five years with Viktor, there was never a time where his eyes displayed the same quality as white-haired witcher's. Before Geralt left, Laelithra saw concern shining within the depth's of his eyes. It was hidden amidst the molten gold. Their relationship had changed significantly over the spring. Gone was the testy acquaintanceship of the earlier months. In its place, a deep respect from one for the other blossom.

Most children would run away from the witcher and child. Adults could not understand the devotion Laelithra held for her witcher friend. Both groups could either feel the swirls of fate, pulling the two together like a maelstrom of cosmic energy. Throughout their lives, Geralt would always find the girl when she had need of him. It was the same way with him. Geralt's mutations gave him abilities surpassing humans and other non humans. The enhancements were needed to kill the monsters for the bounties that were written on sheepskin notices staked in the center of crossroads or notice boards before inns and jails. If he was unable to kill the creature, he would not get paid. Witchers were not human. Geralt was not an armor smith, a sword smith, or a tanner. He did not get paid for a job until it was finished. The man was an outcast for being something he did not choose for himself.

For this reason, he bitterly denied his feelings. The mutagens had killed his capacity to feel higher emotions, or so he claimed. It was impossible for him to feel love. Lust was the only desire known to him. Little did he know that, one day, everything he thought would be turned on its side.

In the future, Laelithra would slowly erode the protective walls surrounding his heart. Perhaps as stubborn as Geralt, she would offer him one thing other women refused to. Laelithra would love the witcher unconditionally: not because he was a witcher or because of an idea of who she thought Geralt of Rivia should be. No, she would love all of him: the humorous drinking side, the scowls, the cold, penetrating eyes, the aloofness, and even the womanizing. Geralt was not her property, and she realized this. They both would need each other.

At the present, the young girl looked at him with childlike devotion. Geralt was not only everything her father was, but also everything he was not. The young girl did not understand how children could fear him because of the quiet calm that oozed out of the witcher. She was left in awe when they sparred. Laelithra could not see anyone besting her hero. In the future, she would strive to be more like him.

Once more, her face contorted as a sneeze erupted from her small body. She breathed in, trying to clear the mucus from her nostrils, yet the sticky goo remained. Again, the fever made her shiver despite the heat of summer. Laelithra tried to comfort herself until the witcher returned. She laid her head on her hand. Heat scalded her flesh. Thick chunks stuck in her throat as the world seemed to spin around her.

Laelithra tried to remember the reasons which had prompted her to race down the temple stairway and beg to accompany Geralt in his work. Geralt had told her a child would be a burden to him. He had told her many things. In her arrogant youth, she believed she was invincible. It was the reason she accompanied him, pushed herself in their training, and did not give heed to his warnings to her. Nothing could hurt her with the witcher there with her. He protected her. With the witcher by her side, the child felt safe.

Where did everything go wrong, she thought to herself as she shivered weakly within the blankets. Once more, her thoughts grew dim and fuzzy. Laelithra stared up at the moon. Occasionally, she would grip her stomach or head as agony threatened to tear the young girl's will to pieces. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to force her weak body to relax. Tears streamed down her young cheeks. Why did he go off like he did, leaving her all alone? His actions puzzled her still. Was he afraid her illness would pass to him? That couldn't be; he had told her he was immune to diseases.

She heard the soft footfalls of something taking large strides. By the sound of the boots crunching the undergrowth, she knew it was Geralt. His footsteps were never heavy like a human's or dwarf's, yet they were not quite so light as an elf's. The witcher of Rivia walked with poise and purpose. Everything he did oozed the confidence that was built into his lean muscles.

Upon opening her eyes, she sought him like an addict seeks his poison. His presence calmed her, making her forget about the illness claiming her swiftly clouding mind. She watch him flip open one of the saddle bags. Laelithra learned from experience that he stowed herbs, alcohol, and utensils in there. His brown leather jerkin creaked with the efforts of his motions.

Her curiosity was roused when she looked at him. She could not think of a time when the witcher, Geralt, did not make her curious. Laelithra was a veritable fount of questions when she was healthy. The young girl wanted to know why one would have to parry after a pirouette, how someone could _know _what their opponent was going to do next, and the effects the different elixirs had on his body. Of course, he would answer her to help her learn. Geralt's personal life was not safe from the young girl's inquisitive nature either. He responded to those types of questions with short, curt answers.

Stepping away from the Roach, he held a brown, chipped mortar and pestle, a small flask of alcohol, a piece of cloth, and the herbs he had brought back from his foraging in the forest against his chest. Slowly, he made his way to the campfire. Crossing his legs, he sat down and placed the strange, dark green leaves next to him.

Her gaze tracked his movements. She wondered what kind of witcher's medicine he was making. Laelithra noticed he did not retrieve any herbs from the pouch hidden away deep within the saddlebag. What could it be? Suddenly, she threw the covers off of herself and stood. Bending down, she retrieved the fur and wrapped herself tightly within it. Curiosity would be the death of her, if the illness did not kill her first.

As she padded over to him, she saw that he was aware of her presence before she had sat down beside her. Even without looking at her, he knew where she was. Laelithra wondered how he could seem to sense the places she sat, stood, or slept. Since the Arcani's attack before they had arrived at the temple, Geralt was on edge, and she attributed his heightened senses to it. He always listened intently for the slightest noises. Briefly, she wondered if he had found any information on the organization. If he'd found anything useful, he would tell her. At least, she hoped he would tell her.

"You should be sleeping, Laelithra. Save your strength because you will need it later," he said, his rumbling voice like a warm blanket on a winter's day. He did not look at her as he opened the flask and poured a small amount of alcohol into the mortar. Tiny flecks of leaves floated in the liquid. Geralt scowled, then dumped the liquid out and picked up the piece of cloth.

"I can't rest." Another shiver made her body quake as she sat down next to him. Laelithra leaned into his side, seeking support from the witcher. At the same time, she drew the various fur blankets tightly around her. It felt as if there was a dam within her nose, threatening to break.

He did not answer her. Instead, he poured a small amount of another liquid into the container. Picking up the cloth again, he swiped at the inside. Geralt was going slowly, making sure every surface of the mortar was touched by the alcohol and cloth.

"What are you doing?" Laelithra asked quietly.

For a brief moment, he paused. He lifted his molten gaze to her. "I'm cleaning it," he stated. It was another simple answer from him. Maybe, it did not occur to him that she did not know the reasons why he was cleaning the vessel.

"Why?" she replied, inquisitively. She turned to him, looking at him with curiosity.

"I have to," he answered.

Laelithra furrowed her brow in confusion. More often than not, the witcher left her confused. Her words were twisted by her feverish condition. She did not know the reason why he would have to clean the mortar and pestle. "Why?" she asked again, whining.

"Don't whine," Geralt barked. "I have to clean it because some of the herbal ingredients I use in my elixirs are lethal to humans." He reached forward and picked up the strange looking leaves. One by one, he tore each of them into tiny pieces. As he shredded them and place them into the chipped bowl, a potent smell spread through the air.

Laelithra tried to clear her nose once more. As she breathed in deeply, a wet snort came from the girl. She wished to be able to smell whatever it was he was shredding. Through her delirium, she could not figure out what the mixture would do for her. Geralt had gone into the woods to find herbs that he could use to help treat her illness. A weakness overcame her, and she suddenly leaned into Geralt, making him tilt a little bit.

He continued to mix the leaves, releasing the sharp, distinctive scent. If Laelithra could smell anything, she would have remarked at how it stank. His muscles would flex and relax from the repetitive grinding movements. As he worked and mixed the powdered with a small amount of alcohol, the two did not talk. After fifteen minutes, he finally turned to her. "Sit up," he ordered, coolly.

At first, she refused to listen. Laelithra was comfortable where she was. His strong shoulder supported her head, and wisps of her platinum hair laid limply over the edges of Geralt's leather jerkin. Suddenly, she felt very tired. What harm could there be in sleeping, she thought to herself.

"Laelithra, sit up," the witcher commanded roughly.

She knew she had to obey. Geralt would not take no for an answer. Sitting up, she focused her fevered eyes on him. When had he turn to face her, she wondered. Laelithra did not know.

He dipped his fingers into the mortar, scooping up some of the green paste with his index and middle finger. Slowly, he reached over to her with his clean hand and pushed her hair back out of her face. The action was tender, yet he scowled as soon as his hand touched her burning flesh. Next, he spread an oren sized dab of the mixture on the flesh of her right temple.

She breathed in once again. The mixture seemed to clear her nose. With joy, she realized that her head did not feel like it was going to explode. The smell of the mixture came to her next, potent, sharp. It was not an unpleasant smell, but it was overpowering as a paste. "Ugh. What is that?" she gagged.

"Spearmint," he answered. "It will relax you and your stomach. If you have a headache, it will dull that." Quickly, he placed more of the ointment on her other temple, her hairline, and the nape of her neck.

Laelithra used to question his skill with herbs. Once more, she lay her head against his shoulder and gazed into the fire. The embers sparkled crimson beneath the ebony-grey wood. "Father used to tell me tales when I became ill. Could you, please?" she asked him. Her eyelids drooped slightly as she lay there.

"I am not very good with tales, Laelithra," Geralt explained. "I do not have a keg of beer to keep my throat from going dry. Old Vesemir would be the one to ask about those things, too. He used to tell the tales to the witcherlings when the agony of the Trials and Winter burned through their bodies." He shifted next to her. Draping his arm over her shoulder, he pulled her against him and allowed her tiny body to sink into his side. Nonchalantly, he wiped his paste covered fingers on the linen cloth.

"It does not have to be a good tale," she protested, weakly. Her body begged for her to close her eyes. The smell of the paste overtook her. It weakened her headache. However, she did not know how much longer she could stay awake.

"Fine, Laelithra," he conceded, roughly. "It was a few years ago. Has it really been that long? I came into Vizima from the North late one afternoon. I lead the Roach by bridle, and I was on foot. Stuffed in my jerkin, I had a notice written on a piece of goat's leather. I found it..." The male witcher looked down at the young girl. He could tell from the rhythm of her breathing that he did not need to go on with the story. The young girl had fallen asleep against him for the hundredth time since their meeting.

….........

The noise of twigs snapping stole into her fevered dreams, rousing her into a state of hazy wakefulness. Slowly, she opened her eyes. At first, she was confused as to where she was. The previous night's campfire roared anew. Heavy fur blankets covered her, securing her in a safe embrace. Her bedroll pressed against her cheek, sharing its softness with her. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

The last thought she remembered was that of Geralt holding her tightly against him. Viktor and the male witcher had one thing in common. In rare moments like those, they were vulnerable, letting their guard down. It was that memory of her father that she would always carry within her. As her father had, Geralt had lapsed into a story of old. She tried to recall the witcher's tale. A feeling of loss came over her. When he told her tales, they fascinated her. Laelithra had a good memory, and she could remember all the details of the monsters, weapon techniques, and Geralt's words. One of the most important things about being able to recall his tales was that it reinforced her idea of the witcher being her hero. No one could best him.

Sitting up, she stretched. Sleep clung to her still. Her back cracked, sending a sharp pop echoing through her body and the immediate campsite. She groaned as her head pounded once more. It felt like her body was going to split in half. Shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight, her gaze scanned the campsite.

The campfire held new logs in it. It roared with life, engorging itself on wooden flesh. Next to it, a small pot sat. The smell emanating from the pot was the very same smell as the dried paste that Geralt had put on her forehead and neck. It was sharp and distinctive. It made her head spin, driving away the stuffiness, yet it had a comforting feel to it. Some distance away from the campfire, his bedroll lay. It was empty.

Geralt was not in the campsite. It did not alarm her because she was used to him disappearing for hours on end. When he would agree to a certain job in a town, he could disappear for days at a time. The witcher did not want to endanger her while he worked. There were other reasons he would vanish in the wee hours of the morning. Geralt preferred to gather the herbs for his witcher's elixirs and medicines without her. She was curious, and she would ask about every herb he collected. Also, he would train a small distance from the camp if she was still sleeping. If nothing else could be said about Geralt, he could be respectful.

Yet, he was mindful. The only thing he required of her was to stay in the immediate campsite. Geralt never forgot. There was an organization hunting her. He did not know the reasons behind it. Although Laelithra could be foolish and brave, she was still innocent. She was still a child. She would wonder later if it was the reason he allowed her to travel with him in the first place. Was it the reason she would worm her way into his heart, or was there something more?

Those thoughts were not in the little girl's head at the moment. Pushing the blankets off of her, she stood and stretched her legs. Once more, she placed her hands on her back and popped the joints as they protested. After sleeping against Geralt and then on the ground, her back complained. The paste on her head cracked as she moved with effort. She decided she would disobey Geralt's instructions that day.

Immediately, she walked to the pot. The dark water swirled around the tiny leaves floating in it. She knew from watching Geralt prepare elixirs, tinctures, and other alchemical concoctions that this mixture was meant for her. In support of that deduction, there was no alcohol or other herbs besides the one that he had used in the paste. Lifting the heavy pot, she placed it over the fire. Then, she turned and walked to the horse.

One of the Roach's ears flicked in Laelithra's direction as the girl approached. The mare's ebony tail swished, swatting at the occasional fly that would land on her brown hindquarters. Chocolate colored eyes watched the child, and she whinnied at the girl's approach.

"He is mean. How am I suppose to stay in camp when this...stuff...is itchy?" she asked the horse as she opened one of the saddlebags on the front of the saddle. For once, her childlike vocabulary came through. As she traveled and sparred with the witcher, he had given her the one thing no one else had thought to: her childhood. She would always be thankful to him for that.

Leaning her head down, the horse nuzzled the top of Laelithra's head. Once more, her tail swished.

Laelithra reached up, patting the horse's muzzle lightly. She searched through the saddle bag feverishly. Brushing her hand passed the hard soap, she grabbed a piece of linen. The paste itched and cracked on her face. The young girl had to wash it off. Besides, she knew Geralt would apply another layer when he returned.

Stepping back from the horse, she turned to where the natural spring gurgled, hidden in a thicket surrounded by trees. Geralt had not returned yet. If he was collecting herbs, she did not expect him to return for a few hours. The paste would irritate her skin beyond tolerance before he returned. She knew she had to remove it, and there was no choice in the matter. Moreover, she had not bathed since the last time they had found a stream. Laelithra suspected that she was starting to smell like a mixture of horse and sweat. Her stink caused her own stomach to roll. What could it be doing to the witcher, she wondered.

Striding to her bedroll, she picked up her father's silver sword. Laelithra had hidden it beneath the bedding each night. The runes seemed to sparkle stunningly in the light of day. The edges were growing blunt since its use on the alpor those many months ago. The downside of being removed from her father's care so early was that he did not teach her how to properly sharpen the blade. Perhaps, she would ask the witcher when he returned.

Laelithra trudged into the forest, holding the scrap of linen cloth to her flat chest with one hand and the hilt of the silver sword in the other. Would Geralt be angry with her, she asked herself. He did tell her to stay in the camp for her own protection. Of course, he would never understand why she felt the need to bathe. Her father had told her that a woman should bathe regularly, that a woman should smell pleasing to attract suitable mates. Laelithra did not know what he had meant by that.

As she was lost in thoughts, she did not hear the slight crunch of leaves behind her. Quick glimpses of black darted from tree to tree. If Laelithra did not feel so safe with Geralt, she would have noticed the movement. The young girl felt invincible with the witcher nearby. She was young and naive.

Arriving at the stream, she looked around. There were no monster nor animal noises. Nothing made a sound but the stream at her feet. The young girl did not find this unusual as she sat the sword and cloth to the side.

Perhaps if she did, she would have noticed the tall, lithe man balancing on the thick branch of the tree closest to her. An ebony tunic clung to his muscular chest, flaring at his waist. On the left breast of the tunic, there was a small, white, stylized _A_. Black leather arm-guards protected his forearms. The leather wrappings were engraved with gold. A dark gray sash was wrapped around his waist and tied at his side. The ends of the sash swung rhythmically against his thigh as he crouched. Two thin long swords were sheathed at his hips. Both blades were concealed by lizard-skin sheathes. He wore a hood over his head, casting his face in shadow. Thin lips set into a scowl as he watched the young girl.

Laelithra leaned forward and placed her hands in the water. Quickly, she splashed the water on her face and scrubbed at her temples. The green paste flaked off of her skin, clinging to her fingertips. If Geralt did not take her in, she would not have felt as safe as she did. She thought there was nothing in the world that could harm her because of her relationship with the witcher.

How wrong she was.

….........

Laelithra looked into the water, watching the ripples as they distorted her reflection. Remains of the green paste clung to her hairline, tinting the light strains green. Shoulder-length platinum hair framed her oval face, drifting slightly in the wind. Dark circles shaded the skin beneath her brown eyes. Her thin lips set in a scowl, reminiscent of Geralt's when he felt something that did not bode well with him. Her skin was pale from lack of nutrients.

The young girl sighed roughly. She resembled nothing of the little girl that Viktor had trained. Her time on the road had not done the young girl well. Laelithra had seen and experience too much for it to not leave a mark on her complexion and personality. Even before her father's death, she was exposed to things a normal child should not have been. Death was as much as part of her daily life as breathing. Her father always had some monster's appendage attached to a hook secured on his belt. Blood soaked his jerkin, rough shirt, and pants, unable to be washed out. His and Geralt's way of life was of second nature to the young girl. In truth, it was the reason she was not afraid of the witcher. Geralt of Rivia was not unusual to her, yet the firsthand experience of their life had made the girl numb.

In frustration, she slapped at the water. Tiny droplets flew out from the stream, splashing on her chest and face. It distorted her reflection. She was disgusted at the way her body had turned out. When she was not sick, she was pretty on the outside, yet the things she had seen had made her feel ugly on the inside. Nothing anyone did surprised her. In a strange way, Geralt was like family. Was she used to the witcher's way of doing things, she wondered. Had she been bred to accept violence?

Laelithra watched her reflection as the ripples slowly calmed. Would she feel better if she was normal and had been raised by her biological parents? Would she be so ugly on the inside? Would Geralt miss her if she died? Her eyes widened. The witcher had become her world. He was her protector, yet could she actually have impacted his life in any way?

She noticed something dark move behind her in the reflection. Terror slammed the air out of her lungs. Geralt had warned her not to go off by herself. There were worse things than bandits, he had told her. Monsters would not hesitate to rip a little girl to pieces. In the witcher's world, there were no innocents.

Her heart raced in her chest, her palms started to sweat, and her pupils dilated. Fear clung to her deep within her bosom. Reaching down, she groped for the handle of her father's sword. The leather wrappings felt cool against her fingertips, calling to her in its cold, metal, silent song, yet she did not know how to answer it. Geralt had forbidden her to use the sword while sparring. Instead, he had purchased two wooden swords the first time they had passed through Rivia.

"_Geralt, I don't see why I have to ride Roach. She is carrying enough of my burden without adding me to it," the little girl whined. She moved in the beaten saddle. Her legs thumped rhythmically with the horse's gait. Sharp pains ballooned up her back_

"_Because you were asleep when we entered town. Stop whining, please." He lead the horse by a thick rope tied to her bit. Over the month of traveling with him, Laelithra had learned how to read the body language of Geralt of Rivia. Her whining annoyed him. When she swore, he was irritated by it. Besides a polite request to cease the act, he would not voice his displeasure. She knew it bothered him. His back would tense, and a pulse of frustration tensed his jaw. _

_She leaned forward and watched his white ponytail swaying gently with his movements.."Do you have work here?" she asked, quietly._

"_No."_

"_Are you going to meet the magician who's been sending you those letters?"_

_Geralt stopped walking. She watched the sword on his back jump as his breathing hitched. His ponytail tumbled over his shoulder as he stared off in the distance. His eyes widened, slitted pupils encased in a wreath of golden flames. This was another occasion where she could read his body language. As quickly as he reacted, he returned to normal. Once more, he resumed his slow pace, leading the horse. "That's none of your business," he grumbled._

_Again, she lapsed into silence. Laelithra felt an overwhelming warmth as she looked upon the male witcher. Geralt was what every man should have been. He was like her father. A blush crept over her face as she stared at him. "Geralt?"_

"_Mhm?"_

_Eagerness brightened her face as she looked at the back of his head. "We're going to get married and have babies when I grow up," she rushed out. _

_He breathed in sharply. His head bobbed around, looking at the others on the street. They stared at the two. Geralt did not tell Laelithra that he could not have children due to the mutagens making him sterile, nor did he tell her that he had no desire to be married. The witcher did not omit those things because he was cruel. There was no incentive to hurt her, and he would let her have her fantasy. "Mhm," he replied, softly. To everyone else, it looked like Geralt was not affected by her statement. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth._

"_Geralt?"_

"_What?" he asked with an edge of annoyance to his voice. Other than Laelithra, no one could hear the irritation in his voice. His back straightened as he continued his slow walk down the streets of Rivia._

"_If you are not here for work or to meet someone, then why are we here?"_

_He did not turn around to speak to her. The two could have a conversation while each looking at the back of the others head. She read tell his emotions through the pitch and tone of his voice, and he could tell hers through the same method. "If I am going to train you, you will need a new sword. I will not allow you to use your father's silver sword in training." He stressed the "not", making it sound important._

_Suddenly, Laelithra's interest was piqued. Her father's most precious possession was his silver sword. Why wouldn't they use it in training? What was special about that blade? "Why?" she asked meekly._

"_The blade is delicate, Laelithra. By using it unnecessarily, you can blunt the razor-sharp edge. You will not pick up a witcher's sword until you are ready."_

_Laelithra frowned visibly. If she could not use her blade, how would she defend herself or practice. She had no blunt weapons, steel weapons, or wooden weapons. The only thing Laelithra had was her father's silver sword, yet she knew not to question Geralt's wisdom. "How? How will I know when I am ready?"_

"_You won't," Geralt answered simply, "but I will."_

Geralt was wrong. She was ready. There were times when she needed to know how to use her silver sword. The hot, summer wind howled through the thicket, whistling around the trees. Her hackles stood on end. How often did the witcher tell her there are worse things out there than bandits? Laelithra should have listened to him. He was far older and much more experienced than she was. Quickly, she looked behind her.

The leaves on the trees shook violently with the summer gale. Animals scurried about, sending shuffling noises through the thicket. Laelithra listened closely, gripping the silver sword's handle tightly, her knuckles white from the tension. Her eyes darted about, searching for the source of the noises and the location of the black blur she had seen reflected in the water. She saw nothing but dappled sunlight and thorns and bark.

Quickly, she stood. Her breath came out in terrified pants. The tip of the silver sword quivered as she shook. Laelithra knew she did not imagine the figure in the water. She was an observant child and not much would escaped her notice. Something was very wrong. Suddenly, the air felt heavy where she was. Looking like a scared stag, she searched for a hint of danger.

The young girl rotated on the balls of her feet, bent her legs, and suddenly dashed back the way she came. She held the silver sword loosely, feeling the point bounce against her leg. Laelithra felt a slight prick to her outer thigh where the sword brushed against her. Fear did not give her a chance to see how badly the blade cut her.

As she made her escape, she did not see the man running behind her. His footsteps did not make a sound in the soft grass. The sash streamed out behind him. Occasionally, the sun would glint on the metal of his blades. He was always beyond his prey's sight.

Once inside the camp, Laelithra skidded to a stop. Her heart raced, her palms were sweaty, and her leg throbbed. As she sat on the log by the fire, she looked out towards the woods. The terror did not relent. She folded her arms, wrapping them around her chest. Where was Geralt, she wondered.

….........

She breathed in slowly, feeling the pressure clear from her head again. Immediately, she sniffled and felt the wet mucus cling to the skin beneath her nostrils. Reaching up, she wiped the sleeve of her shirt across her nose. She picked up the goblet that Geralt had left for her before he departed. The wooden cup warmed her hands. Once more, she felt a chill descend on her small frame. It shook her to the core.

Geralt had not come back from whatever it was he was doing yet. She had decided that he must have been restocking his herbal supply. He would spend hours gathering the herbs he needed for his witcher's medicines and elixirs. The young girl would take this time to analyze their strange relationship.

She sipped at the liquid. The taste was not horrible. In fact, it tasted like the mint her father had given her on one occasion. He had told her it was spearmint. Warmth spread as the liquid trickled down her throat. It heated her insides, driving the sick feeling out of her body. Wrapping both hands around the wooden cup, she brought the rim beneath her nose. Laelithra inhaled deeply, causing a slight whistle to sound in her nostrils.

Silently, she was thankful for Geralt's knowledge of herbs. Even if he had not mean to, the witcher had replaced her father in her eyes. He had became a surrogate. While Geralt was concerned with her training, he also cared about her well being. It was more than Viktor had ever done. The witcher did not make her train beyond her physical limits, he never hit her, nor did he tell her that she could never compete with a boy. Did Geralt care for her? She knew the answer deep down. Would he have refused to take her along if he did not share the same feelings?

Yet, villagers and townspeople said he was a freak. Was he merely a product of a mutation which had rendered him unable to feel? Many women accused him of being a lustful monster. He was bred to fight the ghoul, leshy, and vampire. The herbs and mosses enhanced his abilities. Did it make him a monster as well?

She shook her head in answer to her own question. His intent showed in his actions. When she was sick, he found herbs to calm her stomach and ease the incessant pounding of her head. He mixed the pungent green paste, tore up leaves to seep in the dark water, and ran his hand through her hair to comfort the young girl. If she was injured, he would tend to her wounds. Geralt lifted her in his arms, sat her on a rock, and stitched the jagged cut close. When they left the inn in the last town in which they stayed, he had bought a cask of raspberry juice for her to drink. Laelithra could not drink the murky water, nor would she drink the rye he had bought for himself. Before sleeping, he would secure the perimeter of their campsite. The male witcher had a memory that could rival any scholar. He would never forget that there were alpors and an organization after Laelithra. While she was under his protection, he would keep her safe. However, he would not go beyond her sight. When she jolted awake screaming for Viktor, Geralt would hold her close to his chest and try to soothe away the terrors of the night. He would move her to his bedroll, lay her down, smooth her hair, and whisper words of comfort. The two would drift off to sleep together.

Once more, she raised the cup to her lips and drank. The steam brought sweat to her forehead. She could not think straight because the sickness had sapped her clarity. Again, the concoction warmed her insides. It made her feel well, brightening her disposition.

Behind her, she heard the soft crunch of leaves. Someone was coming into the campsite. Laelithra had no reason to believe it was anyone but Geralt. No bandits would dare enter the camp. While most humans traveling the roads had never seen a witcher's sword rend flesh, they were not dumb animals. Whether it was from fear or racism, most human and non humans, alike, did not want to see Geralt's blade in action. If monsters were intelligent, they would not threaten the camp of a witcher. Geralt's silver blade danced deftly in his hands. Plus, whatever creature he slew would be coin for oats for the horse and a roof over their heads.

"Did you find the herbs you were looking for, Geralt?" she asked curiously. Her back was turned, and she could not see him. She stood up and moved to the campfire. Bending down, she picked up the wooden ladle, dipped it into the pot, and scooped up more of the liquid.

The witcher behind her was silent. She could feel his eyes upon her. He did not come to her like he normally would. She could hear his soft breathing as he stood still. There was no other noise coming from him.

Was he regretting taking her along? Should she have stayed at the temple those many months ago? She poured the liquid into the cup as her mind raced. Flecks of the leaves floated in the cup. Geralt never told her to drain the mixture. Why was he not answering her? Normally, he would answer with a yes or no before lapsing once more into silence. There was never a time when he did not answer her questions, no matter how banal they might have been. "Is everything alright?" she asked, skittishly.

Geralt did not answer her.

Paranoia clung to her soul, coating it with blackness. Briefly, she wondered if he was distancing himself from her because she was going to die from her illness. It would make the parting easier for him. Once more, she coughed. Fire roared in her throat. Mucus dripped from her nose, oozing onto her lips. She lifted her hand and wiped it away with her sleeve. If she was going to die and he knew it, he would tell her. Turning towards him, she froze in terror. Her wooden cup crashed to the ground, spilling the precious tonic. Immediately, her eyes widened.

Geralt was not there. Standing not far from her was a man she had never seen before. Laelithra would have guessed him to be fifteen or sixteen. The hood of his cloak rested against his shoulders. It was no longer over his head, covering his eyes and face. Short blonde hair hung down below his ears, blowing gently in the breeze. Chocolate, slitted eyes watched her. With the exception of the color, the man's eyes reminded her of Geralt's. Thin lips curled into a scowl amidst light facial hair. He rested his hands on the grips of his sheathed swords. The man would have been handsome if not for the cold, malevolent gleam in his eyes. This glint was startlingly different from Geralt's. It was calculated and methodical.

"A girl? Pox on it, Viktor promised us a girl?" he grumbled in a sinister, metallic voice.

Wildly, Laelithra looked around before settling her frightened gaze back to the man before her. The terror made her body go rigid. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end . There was something wrong about this man. He looked like a witcher, but he did not act like one. For a brief second, she wondered if she could escape and find Geralt. He would make short work of this boy before her. Geralt would protect her.

She heard a metallic sound echo around the campsite. Geralt would be too far away to reach. She did not even know where he was picking the herbs at. How would she know in which direction to go? Reaching down, she picked up her silver sword. It was the only protection she had against this man. Laelithra held the grip in her hand loosely but firmly, recreating the technique both Geralt and her father had taught her. "Who are you?" she demanded.

Both swords were now in his hands. The steel blades flashed menacingly. His eyes continued to glint with an emotion that Laelithra could not recognized. It was as if it was concentrated evil, like staring into the heart of all the hatred that she had seen in the eyes of men as they glared at Geralt.

"We do not have names, Destiny of Viktor," he stated, his voice disturbingly calm, "Names are for individuals. Individualism weakens us. We are a well-oiled machine, serving the great, all-seeing Mistress Jhaer. If you must call me something, you can call me, and any of my kind, Veloeglaeddyv."

She did not know who this Mistress Jhaer was. It was not the first time she heard the name, however. Why was she so intent on capturing Laelithra? Slowly, she backed away from the man. Crossing her feet one behind the other, she moved carefully.

He did not let her create distance between them. Moving like a cat, he stepped closer. She could see the rise and fall of his chest. His breath sounded soft amidst the wind. He raised his left sword and pointed the tip at the young girl. "Mistress Jhaer says you are important to our cause. Viktor had promised you to us, and we are tired of waiting. It was supposed to be easy. Upon his death, you were to be handed over to us. Now, the White Wolf has interfered. He shall die, and you shall be reunited with your brother." Immediately, he leaped forward.

Laelithra reacted on an instinct which had been ground into her by both male witchers. The full brunt of his charge was dodged by the girl. She rotated on her feet like Viktor had shown her. Feeling the sleeve of his shirt on her bare arm, she spun against his side. His face flashed with fury, his eyes burned with discontent, and his teeth clenched vehemently together. Briefly, she tried to remember what Geralt had taught her. Like an elusive dream, the knowledge would not come. Forced to react on her own instincts, she swept the silver sword with the momentum of her pirouette. Later, she would question why she did not parry. Geralt and Viktor had ingrained the importance of a parry after a pirouette. One did not know how many enemies were behind her. Not parrying could endanger her life, causing her to be cut down in the middle of combat.

To her joy, she heard the hiss of pain as the glint of silver hit the man. Dark wetness ballooned on his sleeve below his shoulder. Her blade had struck him, yet it was not a fatal blow. The man cursed loudly before raising one of his blades. A flash of steel circled, coming down fast on her wrist.

Laelithra felt a burning sensation on her flesh. The tip of the sword nicked her flesh, cutting lightly. White heat erupted in her wrist, exploding throughout all of her body. "Geralt!" Laelithra cried out in the vain hope that the witcher was near. Of course, Geralt did not hear her. If he was searching for a particular herb, he could be miles away from her. Once more, she dodged and created some distance between the two. Blood splattered from her wrist. Thick, red droplets fell to the ground. Agony clouded her mind, making her drop the silver sword to the ground.

A pleasurable smile graced the man's face. It was as if he enjoyed hurting the small girl. If he was not intent on harming her, the smile would have made him handsome. She could have had a crush on him were he not the object of her terror. Laelithra was an impressionable girl. He crouched, his swords bobbing with his body's movements.

"You're a witcher! Why are you doing this?" she cried.

Laughter bubbled from within the man. It rumbled forth from his chest, washing over her like ice cold water. His eyes flashed with amusement. "I am no witcher, child. I kill them, starting with your father." He moved too fast for the girl. Once more, he sprang on her. The distance was closed between them in the space of a heartbeat. Geralt moved faster than this man did, yet there was one key difference between the witcher and Laelithra. Laelithra was human.

Laelithra wrapped her hand around her other wrist, trying to staunch the blood flowing from the wound. She felt weakened. Her heart pounded in her chest. No longer did she feel sick. The only thing she felt was an intense hatred and fear. What would he do to her? Of course, she could not defend herself against someone who was mutated. He was like Geralt, and she was a simple human.

The assassin raised his hand, balled it into a fist, and sent it crashing into the young girl's head. Another smug smile crossed his face.

Laelithra could not see. When his fist hit her temple, her vision blurred instantly. The force of the blow caused tears to burst forth from her eyes. They trickled down her cheeks, losing themselves in her hair. She stumbled as her knees buckled, yet she refused to fall into darkness. A blinding, white flash of light erupted before her eyes. Then the world passed into darkness.

"Pathetic," he growled. Looking away from the young child, he turned. His mistress had demanded the witcher's death, yet it would please her much more were she to kill him herself. He would leave a note, revealing where the witcher would find the girl. The White Wolf was a predictable animal.

Turning, he stared at the Roach. "Hmm."


	5. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

Laelithra could feel the horse's rhythmic gait. The end of her hair brushed against the corner of her mouth and cheek. It tickled her flesh, causing her to crinkle up her nose in discomfort. Occasionally, she would sneeze and splatter spittle on the horse's worn saddle. Her back hurt as if she had been hunched over for hours. Pain spiraled, stretching its long, tentacles along the back of her body. Laelithra tried not to gasp or show the agony her small body was in.

A menacing wind howled around her, causing the leaves on the trees to voice their discomfort. Stinging the young girl's cheeks, the horse's mane danced wildly in the gusts. Blowing cruelly, the cold air twirled and twisted her hair. It swirled around her, clutching at her with its long,spindly fingers. She shivered. Clenching the horn of the saddle with both hands, she quaked from the cold.

The horse shifted uneasily beneath the small girl, straining against the thick rope. An anxious neigh sounded through the forest path. She was agitated, stamping her displeasure. Leaves danced around her hooves. Like the young girl, the horse was nervous. Once more, she pulled back her massive head, stopped on the path, and pulled against her binds. If anything, the horse had determination. Because the animal resisted her captors, Laelithra felt shaken in the saddle.

Laelithra tried to move and shift herself. She felt herself start to descend down on the horse's flanks. As her small body tried to free itself, her hands remained closed together as if something tightly bound her. A cutting sensation a lit in her wrists, causing her to gasp in pain. Instantly, she bit the inside of her mouth to keep from crying out. Her back and legs stretched awkwardly, protesting as if the young girl's small body was being stretched on the rack. The young girl tasted the metallic, cloying blood spread inside of her mouth, and her stomach twisted.

Her left temple throbbed. When she squished her face in an effort to control the dull pain, she could feel a sticky paste crack. If to accompany her throbbing temples, flashes of white light pulsated in the darkness before her eyes. With each vibration from the horse, the pain would increase in intensity and frequency. Tears streamed down her cheeks, against her will. Deep within her, the young girl felt guilt because she was crying. Neither Geralt, nor Viktor would have cried. In fact, they would probably look for a way out. There was no way out for the young girl. She had neither witchers' speed, nor strength. In fact, Laelithra was a normal little girl. Laelithra thought she was normal. Yet, Viktor had seen that she would be far from the society's views of what a girl was suppose to be.

Again, her back and legs protested as she slipped more down the horse's flanks. Laelithra bit down harder on her cheek. She would not squeal. No, she would not give the false witcher the knowledge he had broken her body. Before the day was out, she was sure she would have the upper hand. One thing could have been said about Laelithra; she had spirit born from the chaos of her life. Viktor had taught the little girl not to be afraid of dying. There was a way out in everything.

Despair clung to her as she thought of her proud father. He would have felt the pain of shame thinking of how his daughter had been caught unaware. Oh, he would have berated the young girl for being foolish. How did she think she was safe? Another truth nagged at the corners of her mind. If her father was still alive, she would have never been in Geralt's camp. She would have been home, before a cozy fire in their cottage. No, he would have been training her. He would have been there with her.

Anger filled the young girl. Geralt had not been there. He left her alone. What was he doing at the time that was so important? Picking herbs for those potions he consumed more than a fisstech addict consumed their drug? Frowning, she bit down more on her cheek. Immediately, the corner of her mouth stung. Specks of the blood flowed over her teeth and down her throat, twisting her stomach. As the liquid swept down her, bile rose to meet it.

Shame filled her body. Geralt had shown her nothing but kindness. He had risked his life to protect her. He had held her securely when she awoke each night, and he bought her the different things she needed. The witcher would teach her monster and herbal lore. Geralt had his own life, too. Of course, the witcher could not be expected to devote his entire life to the young girl. He needed to collect herbs for his elixirs. A witcher without potions was a dead witcher. Geralt had told her those same words many times before. This was not his fault.

She wondered if she would be able to escape. With the exception of white hair and golden eyes, the man was like Geralt. Even the witcher needed to sleep There was no reason to think the assassin was different. Hope increased in the small girl. If he loosened her binds, she could try to run away. Geralt would not forsake her. She was sure of his need to protect her. Destiny had thrown both the weather-beaten witcher and child together.

Pain cut into her wrists. Her back flared in agony. She was stretched, causing her joints to scream. It felt like her muscles were being unwoven like strands of twine. For a normal little girl, the torture would have been unbearable. A normal girl would blame others, call out, cry, or curse the world. Yet, Laelithra's personality was far from society's vision of a perfect child. She was raised by a brutal father figure. He had trained her mercilessly, teaching her to ignore her over emotional nature. When he died, she was set upon the world with no one but herself. Then, Geralt came into her life. He had continued her father's training. While her father was brutal, Geralt was not. In addition to fighting, he taught her how to calm herself.

As the pain lessened, Laelithra opened her eyes and gazed at her surroundings. As she moved, her attention was brought to a thick rope crisscrossing her wrists. It cut into the flesh, making the skin run with crimson. The end of the rope was looped firmly around the worn saddle's horn. She was captured, and she could not move. The tiny girl was slipping off of the flanks of the brown horse, extending her shoulders and arms with the effort to keep herself upright.

The Roach would rise on her hind legs, shrieking loudly in terror. Ebony hair danced in the breeze as she pawed the air wildly. Fear lurked deep within the chocolate eyes as her gaze flicked to every ominous sound.

Laelithra leaned down as far as she could possibly. The horse was her only companion in the cruel captivity brought on by this strange witcher. No. He was not a witcher because he resembled neither Geralt, nor her father. Sweat glistened on the muscled neck of the Roach. "It'll be alright, Roach. He'll come," she whispered, soothingly. Was it to comfort the horse or herself? She could not decide, nor did it matter.

_Come, Brother. A drop of her blood is all I am asking for. She does not need all of it._ The voice floated through her mind, weighing her thoughts down like a rock in a river. Tearing her gaze towards the creature beside her, Laelithra grimaced. It was the alpor who had attacked Geralt and herself those many months ago. Floating along the ground in stride with the horse, the maleficent eyes cut into the young girl.

He turned his brown, slitted eyes, gazing at the alpor out of the corner of his eyes. ". . .bed me?" the man laughed loud, sharp, and long. His laughter made the man appear to be handsome. Once more, her father's saying entered her thoughts. _Not everything fair is good, and not everything foul is evil. _This young man was wicked. There was nothing that could change her mind. "I do not need you for that, sister. Nothing you could do will convince me to let you give into your craving."

She could feel the fury come from the creature floating beside her. The beast's feet never touched the forest path as they walked. Like fisstech being withheld from an addict, the more time passed the more the alpor grew agitated. Arching her back, the alpor's scream reverberated throughout the shrubs and trees.

As if she was hit by a charging horse, Laelithra's shriek could be heard. The sound felt like it was pushing down on her forehead. She could not cover her ears as she wanted to because her hands were tied to the saddle. In fact, the only thing she could do was shut her eyes tight and will the sound to go away.

One of the silver long swords leaped into the man's hand with little effort at all. It was smaller than Geralt's sword. Also, the blade looked thinner. The brown in his eyes flamed with fury as he gazed at the alpor. There was no disgust in his eyes like she had witnessed with Geralt. In fact, it was as if the man was bothered by the fact that the alpor did not listen to him.

Laelithra felt the clawed hands on her forearms, threatening to take her from the steed. She heard the Roach's frantic screams as the horse tried to back away from the creature. The hands bit into her flesh, drawing thin rivulets of blood. Immediately, the blood ran down her arms in tiny crimson beads.

"She is not yours, and you have outlived your usefulness," the man growled. He stepped forward and swung. The blade traveled in a smooth arch, glinting silver in the light.

The only sound Laelithra heard was the scream of agony as silver touched the flesh. A horrible searing sound tore through the rustling of the wind and leaves on the trees. Finally, the head of the alpor plopped off, bouncing along the path. At the same time, the creature's body dropped like a sack of flour. Blood splashed onto the little girl, coating her clothing, hair, and face red with the creature's blood. She shivered deep within herself as her stomach roiled in disgust.

Once more, Laelithra felt the painful grip of someone touching her. It bit into her forearms, driving flames of pain to burst forth from the gashes. Her eyes remained unfocused as she wished Geralt would arrive to save her. He was not coming. The only one she could count on was herself. Snapping out of her terror-induced state, Laelithra turned her head. Instantly, she clamped her teeth down on the arm of her captor.

The man was not human. She realized that as he did not hiss in pain from her painful gnashing. Instead, he dropped her into the saddle and raised his hand. With malice, he struck her in the face with his palm. He growled each time he hit her.

She remained limp, taking whatever he would dole out as punishment. As she was nearing insanity, she heard the horse neigh loudly.

"You stupid snot. You will clean yourself at the next stream. If you try to escape, I will paralyze you from the waist down. Mistress Jhaer might not want you spoiled, but she wishes you. What she needs from you has nothing to do with your legs," he replied devoid of emotion as he continued to pummel her.

Laelithra remained still. She was beaten before. Her thoughts returned to Geralt, urging him to come.

…...

Tears streaked down the little girl's gaunt cheeks, following the previous tracks in the dirt smudged on her face. Pain shot up through her wrists once more. She sat with her back against a large tree. Laelithra was bound to it and unable to escape her imprisonment. Exhausted, she dipped her head. Her chin touched the top of her torso, but she feared drifting off to sleep. The false-witcher slept nearby. It was obvious Laelithra feared him. Often, she found him looking at her darkly as he sharpened his blade. There was no guessing; she knew he would kill her.

Since her father's death, she had known cruel people. Men would offer her food for something extra. Women would think their children were too good to play with an orphaned freak. Children would ask her what her father did, and Laelithra would say nothing. She learned those first few weeks her father's profession was considered taboo. Since being run out of a village, she became quiet about it. It confused the small girl. Laelithra did not understand the animosity the villagers had for her father and Geralt.

To her, Geralt was like everyone else. There were two exceptions to that, though. Firstly, his eyes resembled a cat. Secondly, he could not have been more than forty, and his hair was as white as one who was lucky enough to live to sixty-five. While he could be cold and calculating, there was a softer side to the witcher. Laelithra knew she was one of a few to witness it. Yes, Geralt was strict when training her, but he cared about her well-being as well. The witcher would always stop her when it became too much for her.

Viktor's training style was quite different fran Geralt's. He was cold and harmed her physically if her aggressive tendencies showed in training. He did not think she could perform as well enough as her brother could have. At one point, she wondered if he regretted taking her instead of her twin brother. Like Geralt, his piercing blue eyes were cold and calculating. Wrinkles creased his forehead, the edges of his mouth, and the corners of his eyes. Pure white hair was pulled up high into a ponytail. Loose strains fell forward, framing his face. Also, he had another side to him like the other witcher.

_Logs crackled in the fireplace as the fire gorged itself. Outside, newly fallen snow blanketed the area around their cabin. It clung to the branches of the trees, threatening to spill over on anyone passing below. The animals around their cottage were either hibernating or had migrated. Often, Laelithra thought winter killed the earth because everything was so barren._

_A cold wind howled, battering against the sides of the cottage. The wind blew like that for three days. Coldness seeped into the house. It caused the little girl to huddle deeper within the fur blankets draped over her shoulders. They were wolves that her father had slaughtered for their pelts earlier that summer. Her father had called off training today because of the biting, mind-numbing cold. Viktor normally did not refuse to train her. Girls were inherently lazy, inactivity making them more so, and it was why most of them were regulated to birthing and sewing. Boys were the ones made naturally to be warriors. Wars were male-inspired things, and House-keeping was the woman's. He cursed Destiny for bringing him twins and forcing him to choose between the boy and the girl. Laelithra knew he resented choosing her. At the time, she seemed more promising. She was his destiny, and he was her own. Even as a small child, she knew one could not run away from fate forever. It always found some way of catching up. Why could he not see that? _

_She stretched in the worn, leather chair. The movement made the chair creak, resounding inside around the sparsely furnished room. Fire illuminated everything and cast a orange glow on the objects. Several monster's hides were attached to the wall. A mop of curly blonde hair from the striga her father had decided to **cure **streamed down the wall. Next to it, another macabre bumpy, leather skin hung. The entire room was decorated, showing an unusual sense of pride in the hunt of the creatures. This was her reality. There were no refining schools, multiple expensive gowns, or children to play with. Laelithra would have no idea what to do with those ordinary girlish things. The young girl treated each scrap of hide with her father. Death was as much a part of her as life. Her world was like the grim skins. Some people, both human and non-human, did not respect the work her father did. Others, both human and non-human, openly thanked him. Those were the few friends Viktor had. None were children. In fact, the only things in Laelithra's life was her wooden sword, Viktor, and a doll she had before she came to live with the aging man. He told her there was no room for play in her life. Pendulums, the Forest Path, and the dreaded balance beam were her only constant playthings._

_Yet, not that day. It was too cold to train. He had told her that. There was a strange sadness gleaming in the old man's eyes. She could not understand what would make him seem sad. In fact, the feeling did not fit Viktor's personality. Her grip tightened around the warm cup. Inside of it, tea sloshed. Some spilled on her burlap dress. He would make her clean it, and she dreaded it. The mind-numbing wind would freeze her bones. If she could get the dress to dry before he saw it, then he would have nothing to complain about. At worst, he would make her go through the pendulums as punishment. It was a far better alternative than a beating._

_Pushing off the chair, she placed her feet on the floor. The shock of the frigid wood sent chills up her spine, hurting her toes, and making her shiver involuntarily. She cried out in pain. Yet, it would not deter her. She would not wash her dress in the freezing cold to build toughness as he so liked to call it. He called it beating the femininity out of her. It was suppose to make her harder, as were the herbs. Were boys really warriors and girls homemakers? Perhaps. It was all she saw of the girl and women in the village. The men went to war, and the boys played with toy swords. Yet, she could not be a simple girl. Her father trained her day and night. He taught her things that a little girl should not know. Viktor gave her a toy sword. Where did she stand? Was she suppose to act like a boy, or was she suppose to act like a girl?_

_Entering into the dilapidated kitchen, she saw Viktor sitting at the table. His rough sigh echoed through the small space of the room. He did not look up when she entered the room. It was as if he did not hear her. _

_Laelithra knew she should have done one thing. Viktor had not noticed her. This would have given her the opportunity to return to the living room if she chose to. He was preoccupied and would not have noticed her dress. There would be no Trail, Pendulums, or the balance beam. Yet, she could not make herself leave the kitchen. _

_By now, she recognized her foster father was not human. No humans had eyes like he did,moved as quickly as he did, or could survive the wounds he would have received. He had sworn he felt nothing aside from the shame of fate providing him with a girl. She rubbed her eyes as if to clear the misconception forming in her mind. Was he feeling sadness?_

_Viktor still did not notice her. His sapphire gaze was locked on a scrap of paper set on the table before him. From a distance, she could see it was a painting of a woman. The image was blurry, and she could not make out the face or clothing. His long, agile fingertips traced along the woman's jaw in a caress, intimately. They were quick in his old age._

_She was not old enough to know the meaning of the caress or the feelings behind it. Many years later, she would. Laelithra would risk everything for the man who claimed her heart. In fact, she would not be able to help it. It would be like she was being controlled by another person. Her desires, her thoughts, and her emotions all hinged on one person: her love. Presently, Laelithra could not grasp that concept. He was not suppose to feel that way. The thoughts slammed inside of her mind like she was running into a brick wall. There was no reasonable explanation for that look to be on his face._

_The old man still did not notice her. He was content in gazing at the painting. His eyes took on a distant quality, as if he was thinking of a more pleasant time. To him, this kitchen and the little girl did not exist._

_Laelithra could not stop her feet from taking steps towards the table. The curiosity to see what it was that made the man act like he did outweighed her common sense. In fact, the woman in the portrait was worth being run through the pendulums. She stopped at the edge of the table, stood on her tiptoes, and peered at the painting._

_A young woman sat straight in a posh chair. Sandy hair fell from her shoulders, curving around to frame her fair, oval shaped face. Despite it being a portrait, bright emerald eyes held warmth and a deeper emotion. Laelithra could not understand the emotion because she had never seen it in anyone other than the portrait. Two thin scars ran parallel cutting deep within the other woman's cheek. The scars did not stop the confidence oozing from deep within her. Bright crimson lips curved up at the corners. It was as if the woman held a secret. Of course, she was in expensive clothing. She wore a ruby frock with ebony stars and moons embroidering the cuffs of the sleeves. Black cambric covered her breasts, and the fabric barely contained them. _

_Instantly, the young girl recognized the woman. "Why do you have a painting of Mama?" she asked, softly. The young girl should have known better. Viktor's attention was not on her until she had spoken. There was still time to back out of the room so she would not induce his wrath._

"_That is none of your business, Laelithra," he snarled. Quickly, he pushed off of the chair. He spun around, opened a drawer in a cupboard, and placed the portrait within it. Inside, the painting would taunt Laelithra until her father's death. "Go outside and run through the woods on the areas not covered in snow. Now."_

Her father's homemade trail was a worse punishment than anything this new witcher could do to her. She moved and felt the rope slip from the tree. In a fraction of a second, she was free. Laelithra wondered what she should do. The young girl knew she should make her escape. Yet, she stood there. Where would she go? Geralt did not know where she was, nor did she know where he was.

Regardless, she could not stay here. The man meant to have his mistress kill her. Laelithra knew enough about the evil of people from traveling with her father and, briefly, with Geralt. Terror assaulted her lungs and she did not hesitate. With her arms still bound behind her, she took off in a sprint in the direction of the endless forest.

Her flight was not soundless, and the man proved to be like Geralt. As soon as she broke into a run, the sleep was ripped from him. It did not take him long to locate her. He jumped up out of his bedroll. Immediately, he sprinted in her direction, covering the distance between them.

Fate had designed to conspire against her. She heard a string of filth come from the man's mouth, the terrorized neigh of the Roach, and the buzzing in her ears. One of the roots of the trees reached up, grasped her right foot, and twisted it. With a cry of fear and pain, she landed on the ground hard. Her breath was violently pushed from her. Laelithra knew it was over. All of her father's training had been for naught. The young girl was going to die at the hands of these monsters. If Geralt was perusing her, she doubted he would have reached her in time. They wanted the witcher's and her blood. Geralt had foiled their abduction once before, and they sought to make him pay for it.

Immediately, the man leaped on top of her.

Pain coursed through her body with his own crushing her. Her fragile body was not strong enough to handle his weight. She had not eaten or drank since her capture. Yellow shadowed her eyes and skin. Yet, defiance rose within her. The emotion was instilled in her by her father. Laelithra would not rely on Geralt's help or wait on rescue. There was no guarantee that he would even come.

His hands sought her own as she struggled beneath him. His fist whorled down, intent on maiming her head. A growl of rage escaped past the young boy's lips. Instantly, she felt his muscular thighs press into her own. The assassin had pinned her.

She shifted her head to the side in a movement driven into her by Geralt. Anger, fear, and hurt swirled inside of her. It mixed deep within, clutching at her with its sharp talons. She would not be detained, and she would not stand for the treatment the man was giving her. No, he was not even a man. He was a boy. Even with her hands bound, she was determined to resist him and get away. Courage swelled in Laelithra's chest. Instantly, she rolled her head to the side and bit deep within his flesh. Retching, she could feel his blood trail into her mouth, out of the sides, and down her throat.

As she bit, he raised his fist again to smite her. It dawned on him from her speed and aggression what Viktor was doing with his foster daughter. The fact was irrelevant. Training the girl could not spare her from his promise. She would not save the world from what was to come. In fact, she would help them. Fanatics were always sure of their motives. He hissed in pain as she tore chunks of his flesh out of his arm. As with all of his kind, he would live. He bent down until she could see into his eyes. "Viktor's training will not save you, little one. If we have to, our sisters will erase all the knowledge from your memory. Our mistress does not need you to consciously remember things. In fact, it'll make it easier to use you," he growled, menacingly.

Laelithra released his arm from her grip. Blood trailed from her mouth, down her chin, and around her neck. It soaked into the collar of her clothes. She leaned up quickly with her head and smacked it into the center of his own as hard as she could.

A sick sound of cartilage and bone cracking with force echoed around the woods. The man hissed loudly in pain. Water poured from his eyes, unintentionally. Blood streamed from his nostrils, landing in thick, dark plops on her dress. Quickly, he brought his closed palm into her cheek.

The abuse left a large smear in blood-his blood, surrounding her mouth and cheeks. She cried out in pain, sharply. Instantly, she felt herself immobilized as his hands found her restraints. With a jerk, her arms were raised over her head. Laelithra was helpless to this boy, who pretended to be a witcher. However, she remembered what he had said before. _ I am no witcher, child. I kill them, starting with your father. _If he was pursuing them, _w_ould Geralt be among them?

She felt his weight leave her. He stood over her. Blood still poured from the wound. The assassin squinted at the little girl.

Against her wishes, she cowered. She knew she would die. There was no hope.

…...

The days wore on for the witcher, blending together into one seamless hour.

His feet had started to hurt the day before yesterday. Redness bled from the corner of his eyes, making the gold irises appear molten next to the crimson vines. He could not ignore the sluggishness creeping into his bones. It ate at his steps. Soon, he would have to rest. Yet, the knowledge of the little girl being held captive somewhere bothered him more than fatigue.

Geralt retrieved an aged piece of paper from the mahogany pouch on his side. One week ago, he had found it attached to a tree by a simple pearl handled stiletto. The dagger was not a remarkable find, but the tassels attached to the handle were. Black and white: colors he would much later recognize as Arcani or specifically the symbol of their assassins. He read the letter sixty six times already in a span of a week, trying to learn any clues of who could have taken her.

_**HONORED**__** WITCHER**_

The snide words did not bother Geralt. He was used to hostility and indifference, being treated with those actions for a profession that he did not choose to be. No, he did not think of the challenging words of a person he had never met. Geralt stared at the heavy stroked letters in hopes of gleaming information about the abductor. Thinking back, he could not help but remember the wide sweeps of sorceresses, regardless if they were angry or flattered. There were no lower case letters, and he thought it was odd. Several ink blots dotted the paper from where his foe pressed the quill down too hard. The witcher did not have to guess. He knew the author was undeniably male.

_**HONORED**__** WITCHER,**_

I SHOULD THANK YOU, WITCHER. LONG HAS THE MISTRESS HUNTED FOR ERIKA, THE ONE THE _**ELDER WITCHER RENAMED LAELITHRA. A FITTING NAME, DO YOU NOT THINK SO? SUCH A **__**HOPEFUL SOUNDING NAME TO MASK HER TRUE INTENT IN THIS WORLD.**_

THIS GOES BEYOND YOUR INVOLVEMENT WITH THE GIRL AND BEYOND OUR OWN. SHE WILL BE THE SAVIOR OF THIS WORLD. YOU, A SIMPLE WITCHER, CAN NOT STOP THE EVENTS OF FATE FROM PROCEEDING FORWARD, NOR YOU, A SIMPLE WITCHER, CAN FORESEE WHAT IS TO COME. WE WERE PROMISED THIS CHILD BEFORE YOU FOUND HER. FATE DEEMED HER OURS AS FATE DEEMED THE LION CUB OF CINTRA YOURS.

YOU WITCHERS SHOULD KNOW NOT TO INTERFERE WITH THINGS THAT ARE WRITTEN AND CAN NOT BE UNDONE. AFTER ALL, IT IS WHAT MAKES YOU WHAT YOU ARE. A MONSTER TO THE INNOCENT HUMANS YOU SWEAR TO PROTECT AS YOUR WHORE OUT YOUR SWORD. DESTINY IS WHAT MAKES YOU. IF YOU DO NOT STOP YOUR INTERFERANCE IN OUR PLANS, DESTINY IS WHAT WILL BREAK YOU. THE MISTRESS HAS FORSEEN THE FUTURE, AND IT WILL BE BROUGHT FORTH FROM THIS GIRL. THERE WILL BE NO OTHER OPTION.

YOU, WITCHER, HAVE TWO CHOICES . I HOPE YOU WILL DECIDE WISELY.

YOU CAN KEEP YOUR FICKLE HONOR. YOUR HONOR IS LAUGHABLE, AT BEST. IT IS THE WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING. YOU ARE AN EVER CHANGING CHAMELEON, SHEDDING YOUR HONOR AS YOU SEE FIT. IT IS PATHETIC THE SHEEP CAN NOT SEE THIS AND DO NOT KNOW THE DOOM THAT FOLLOWS IN YOUR FOOTSTEPS. YET, IT IS WHY THEY MUST BE CLEANSED FROM THIS WORLD. HUMANITY IS THE WEAK LINK IN THE EVOLUTIONARY CHAIN, A KNOTCH IN A BLADE THAT MUST BE BUFFED OUT. THE NON-HUMANS ARE NOT BETTER. ELVES DESIRE FOR POWER ARE MASKED IN THE FORMS OF REPRESSION AND FREEDOM. THEY ARE NO DIFFERENT FROM THE HUMANS. BEFORE, THE ELVES WISHED TO DO WHAT THE HUMANS ARE DOING NOW. EXPAND AND CONQUER. SMILE AND MASK FRIENDSHIP TO EXTINGUISH THE HUMAN THREAT. TWO YAPPY DOGS BATTLING FOR TERRITORY. IT WILL LEAD TO CIVILIZATION'S DESTRUCTION. MISTRESS JHAER HAS FORESEEN A BETTER FUTURE DEVOID OF THE PEASANTS AND RABBLE.

_**BY NOW, YOU MUST REALIZE THE GIRL IS FOND OF YOU. WE RECOGNIZED THIS, ALSO. FOR **__**LAELITHRA'S DEVOTION, IT IS NOT HARD TO UNDERSTAND THAT YOU FEEL THE SAME WAY ABOUT HER. IT WAS AN UNEXPECTED SURPRISE. YET, WE CAN DEAL WITH SURPRISES. YOU, THE WHITE WOLF, SHOULD JOIN US. THE MISTRESS CAN GRANT WHATEVER IT IS YOU DESIRE. POWER? ACCEPTANCE? MONEY? SHE GRANTS ALL FOR ONE PRICE. OBEDIENCE. KNEEL AND KISS HER COLD HAND. SWEAR TO SERVE HER IN ALL OF HER GLORY. ALL YOU COULD WISH FOR WILL BE YOURS.**_

YOU CAN NOT STOP FATE, WITCHER. WHETHER YOU JOIN US OR NOT, LAELITHRA WILL BE _**REUNITED WITH HER BROTHER. HE WILL BE HER PROTECTOR, NOT YOU. LITTLE GIRLS ARE NOT **__**MEANT TO BE WITCHERS, BUT YOU REALIZE LAELITHRA IS SPECIAL NOW, DO YOU NOT? HOW COULD YOU NOT? HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU WOKEN WITH HER? SHE WILL USHER IN THE COMING OF THE NEXT AGE. THE MISTRESS WILL RULE ALL. NO AMOUNT OF YOUR TRAINING WILL CHANGE DESTINY.**_

IF YOU VALUE LAELITHRA SO MUCH, COME AND CLAIM HER. AT THE VERY LEAST, COME FOR YOUR HORSE._  
_  
_a_

The A was set inside a smudge of black wax. In fact, Geralt could tell by the shape of the letter that the seal was created by a woman. Most young sorceresses made the tail of the letter "a" hooked. From experience, it reflected the kind of person that created the seal. Often, young sorceresses would raise their tone at the end of a declaration. This seal was made by another and not the author of the letter.

Onward, he pushed his tired feet. Why did he follow ceaselessly? Often, the fanatical were wrong in their prophecies. They would use the girl, realize she had no talent either way, and cast her brother and her aside. He could always purchase another Roach. Geralt had one answer to the question. He had promised Laelithra to protect her from this organization. Regardless of not having anything to swear by, the witcher always saw oaths through when he made them. What possessed him to make such a thing to this young child he had never set eyes on before? Of course, he tried not to play knight. A part of him thought he should have left her on the side of the road when he found her. If he did, he would not have been walking tired without his horse.

Dirt kicked up behind him as he walked. The dust , clinging to his clothes. It swirled around him, causing him to hack loudly. Around him, the creatures of the forest chirped and growled a warning to the passing witcher. He did not pay heed.

Sense of duty was not the only thing driving Geralt to find the young girl. When he trained her, he could tell from the quickness in her body how Viktor had trained her. As a trainer in Kaer Morhen, Viktor was cruel at times. Geralt could recognize the old man's techniques in the way she half spun and pirouetted. Viktor left a bad taste in the White Wolf's mouth. During the end of Viktor's stay at Kaer Morhen, the old man looked like he was training to fight humans. Why wasn't he killed at the battle as originally thought? Why did he not come back? The questions bit at Geralt's backside. He sneered and swore quietly. Sleepiness robbed him of a clear, precise mind.

The witcher was torn from his thoughts by a glint of white coming into his field of vision. It was quiet in this part of the path. Vaguely, he could make out bootprints and hoof-prints sinking deep within the springy ground. He had been following these tracks for weeks now and hoped it would not rain to wash them away.

Bending down, he examined the cause of the white glint. The dappled sunlight had hit on a decomposing skull, making it stand out among the green forest. Clumps of grey, wrinkled flesh hung onto the bone. Small fangs glinted, causing the skull to appear to be locked in an eternal gruesome smile. Predators or other monsters had picked the juiciest parts of the skull clean. Both eyeballs and the tongue was gone. A matted bunch of dirty, stringy hair lay where the head had lay. Obviously, the animals or creatures tore it off to get at the brain. Alpor. It was clear to Geralt.

Geralt turned the skull over, continuing his observation of it. The spine was severed cleanly by a sharp blade. He felt a chill rush up his spine. Things did not make sense in his mind. Of course, the witcher knew the creature would have been resistant to steel. In fact, the severing would not have been cleanly done if it was a heavy, steel blade. Yet, it was. Even in his sluggish mind, the only possible explanation would have to be a silver blade did this. Why were the humans trained to fight like witchers?

He dropped the skull to the ground, hearing it land with a loud thunk. Immediately, he narrowed his eyes as he thought of the little girl in the hands of someone who was trained to be a witcher and not mutated. What was the author of the letter doing to the small girl? Why did it bother him so much?

Of course, the answer was staring him in the face. Laelithra had done what few others did. She was not frightened of him and judged him by his actions and not his profession. In a way, he had felt a strong bond, a kindred spirit, with the little girl. It had caused him to act on more than one occasion. He had to find her in time. In Geralt's mind, there was no other way.

Another wave of tiredness overtook his body, causing him to sway slightly on his feet. Blinking his eyes, he had to force them open again. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Geralt knew he would be no help to the young girl if he arrived to her _rescue_ dead on his feet.

Yet, he could not afford to fall asleep. The author of the note was ahead of him by how long Geralt did not know. There was one thing he could do. As Geralt would tell a grown Laelithra later, there are some places in the world were it was too dangerous to sleep. This was one of those such times. Instead of sleeping, he would meditate for a bit to shake the drowsiness from him. Then, he would be refreshed and ready to continue his endless journey.

…...

Rain beat down on the witcher, rushing down the grooves and scars of his face. It snaked into the spaces of his jerkin, wetting and making the burlap shirt cling to his chiseled torso. A cold wind blew and chilled him. Reaching for him, it grasped at the wet clothes with its icy talons. Occasionally, he would shiver from the cold and wetness. He shook his head, trying to get the annoying water out of his thick, grey eyebrows. Slowly, he blinked. The witcher was wet, cold, and miserable.

He walked in a slow stride, trying to pace himself. His meditation had cost precious hours, and he could afford to make that mistake again. In reality, Geralt was better off. Even if the Roach was still alive, the man who simply signed the letter _a _had the disadvantage. The man was traveling with a child. Judging by the letter, the man's mistress wished the girl alive. She would need to eat and relieve herself. If Geralt knew Laelithra by now, he knew how she got when she was tired. Plus, she was sick. The witcher had only himself to worry about. He might not catch up with the man tonight, but he would get both Laelithra and the Roach back. Geralt was sure of it.

As he walked, he paid no attention to the rain falling from the sky. It landed in thick plops in the pools of muddy water in the middle of the road. The mud grasped the soles of his worn leather boots, causing his feet to sink with each step. Above him, the leaves of the trees collected the nurturing liquid from the heavens. He felt the drops land with a ping on his leather jerkin, coursing down the latches, chest, and the straps of his sheath which crossed his chest.

Despite the effort of trying, Geralt could not shake the feeling of kindred-ship the little girl inspired in him. He would question his emotions as he did with everything. Laelithra was not judging. Even at her tender age, she did not question the things he did to survive. She did not care about the fact that sometimes he had an code. Geralt used a code because people who used such things were well-respected and held in high-esteemed. People like that. Yet, it did not mean he was an uncouth monster who lacked morals. He had his own principles which he stuck to. Sometimes.

There were sometimes that he did not need his principles to do the right thing. During those times, there was no room for doubt and error. Every incident involving the platinum hair, brown-eyed girl involved one of those times. Listening to his instinct, he should have left her on the road when he found the starve child those many months ago. While she would have died, she would not have been kidnapped as she was now. He did not know what they wanted with the young girl. Yet, there were humans working together with vampires. Geralt narrowed his eyes, squinting into the mist caused by the never-ending rain.

Geralt knew why he had given into the young girl's demands and was training her. She was alone in the world. Even the witcher had someone. Laelithra's family had been ripped away from her, and she had no one. Somehow, she had begun to worm her way into his defenses. Was it when she saved his life, fending off the alpor as he lay dazed? Perhaps, it was when she first awoken during the night, inspiring the witcher to comfort her. Was it because she took care of him and expected nothing in return. He tried not to think of her as a twin spirit, able to understand his moods and appreciate his cautions. While it was nice to have someone like that, Geralt did not want to take in another child. However, it was just that. The witcher took her in, and he did not understand why. Whatever it was, it left him feeling reeling, shaking, and vulnerable. He hated the feeling. Immediately, Geralt scowled.

The witcher took the oaths he swore seriously. He had nothing to swear on or by with the exception of his word. Geralt was not an honorable man. Yes, he knew the difference from right and wrong. Sometimes, he blurred the line when he was hired out for a job, and he would always defend himself or those he cared about if they were threatened. Yet, he would not hunt certain creatures if they pose no harm to humanity. Of course, he had to see this through. He had promised Laelithra he would protect her. It seemed like years ago since he had uttered those words to her. Why did he say that to a child he did not even know? More questions and vague answers plagued his mind.

Reaching down to his side, he pulled out a thin flask of rye from his pouch. The wind chilled him, eating him past the _warmth_ of his leather armor. There was no warmth from the clothes he wore, and it was a laughable notion at best. Yet, Geralt rarely laughed or smiled now. In his pursuit of the author of the letter, Laelithra, and the Roach, Geralt endured all of the elements of summer. He had been baked by the sun, frozen by the rain, and whipped by the gales. Nothing could give the witcher a break, and he had lowered himself to thinking he had bad luck. Geralt would not pity himself. That particular emotion was beyond him.

Next, he took a long pull from the flask of alcohol. The liquid filled his mouth, tingling his gums. Swallowing hard, he felt the lump of warmth spread down his throat. Immediately, the heat spread to all corners of his body. While the effects were fake, Geralt felt less cold. He shivered less.

What was it about the girl? Once more, his mind questioned him. Laelithra was not his; she was Viktor's child. It was a fact that was not lost on the witcher. What was his plan with Laelithra? Why was the elder witcher training her in the ways of a witcher? It was not the only thing he did. Geralt could not help but notice the agile and gracefulness of the little girl. With the way his mind was traveling, it did not take long to connect the two points. Where did Viktor get the herbs? He knew it had to be from Kaer Morhen. Was that the reason the old witcher never returned? A sigh of frustration erupted from deep within Geralt. The questions did not matter now. According to Laelithra, Viktor was murdered, killed by some monster like a witcher should die.

A part of him was relieved about the witcher's death. Viktor was always a hard, malevolent witcher. Yet, Geralt did not foresee him attempting to feed his own child of destiny those herbs. Deep inside, he knew it was what made Laelithra aggressive. Because of her _father's_ interference, Laelithra would find entering into womanhood difficult. Her Moon Blood would be very painful. Geralt grimaced, trying to push those thoughts furthest from his mind. Placing the flask of rye to his lips, he battled the coldness, memories, and speculations.

Once more, he looked down at the ground. Geralt swore softly. The rain was a hindrance, making the faint bootprints and hoof-prints vanish. He wondered how far behind he was from the author of the note and Laelithra.

…...

Geralt was a few days behind the assassin, Laelithra, and the Roach.

As the trees became sparse and rocky terrain became more prevalent, their journey slowed. The horse was having a difficult time. She took her time, trying to find the right path on the stony ground. More often than not, the man jerked the long rope cruelly. Roach would stumble and lose her footing. Immediately, she would neigh in agony. Drops of rain coursed down her flanks, clung to her dark mane, and stuck in her long eyelashes.

He would try to increase the pace of the beast all the time. The assassin was not a fool. If what his sister alpor had said was true, the witcher would come for the young girl. While it was not destiny, there was something unexplained about the young girl and the white haired man. Why was she not afraid of Geralt? His mistress had seen into the future, prophesying the destruction of their order based on the relationship between the White Wolf and the young girl. The Arcani had survived strife throughout the centuries to be destroyed by a white haired freak and a young girl's fascination with the cur. No, he would not let that happen. Laelithra was what his mistress had been waiting for all the years of her succession. By sending her away, Viktor had betrayed them all. In fact, the elder witcher was just denying the course of Destiny. The assassin had killed enough of the old man's kind to know how ironic a witcher denying destiny was. Glancing behind him, he observed the sleeping child. What was so special about her?

Days ago, he had removed the binds holding her wrists. While he did not care about how much discomfort she was in, Mistress Jhaer stressed not to hurt the young girl's hands. It would seem she needed them for reasons the assassin did not understand. She slumped over the horse, draping her tiny arms down the side of the horse's muscular neck. The waif was skinnier than before. In fact, the assassin could probably wrap both of his hands around her waist. Sunlight reflected off of the small droplets of rain, shining on her platinum blond, thinning hair. Thick strands fell out, lining the saddle and her shoulders with its spindly mass. Laelithra was too weak to try to escape. Her last attempt had left the young girl bruised, battered, and broken.

Onward, the assassin plodded. He would not risk meeting the White Wolf alone. Legends of the witcher filled his mind. While he murdered some from the cat and griffin schools, he had never faced the best of their kind. Most of the witchers were boys as he was. Yet, there was a boy from the griffin school, Jozef of Talgar. Reaching up, he touch a long scar starting from his upper cheekbone and ending at the corner of his mouth. His brow narrowed. Jozef would pay for catching him off-guard. Vowing on the mistress, the young assassin would strip Jozef, take him to the open courtyard of the cult's palace, place the young witcher above their pyramid chair in the center of the ivory stone circle, and lower him onto the seat slowly. Smiling, he envisioned the impalement lasting for days.

Deep inside of his stomach, a terror began to move together, congealing like scabs of blood. If Jozef could best him, the White Wolf would do much worse. It was a real possibility Geralt of Rivia could kill him if the assassin was caught unaware. He knew he could not win against the other without help. His Mistress had foreseen his blade penetrating the chest of the witcher with her help. Yet, speed was of the essence. Geralt would not rest until he had the girl again. Then, their carefully laid plans would not come into fruition.

If Geralt refused the mistress's offer, she had ways of making men bend to her wishes. She would take the White Wolf alive and spirit him to their main base of operations. A horrendous experience awaited him there. Mistress Jhaer saved her most fiendish tortures for those she viewed most threatening. Geralt fell into the category for his relationship with Viktor's child of Surprise. The witcher was one of the only people who stood in the way of her masterful scheme.

Laelithra whined softly in her discomfort. Beneath her, the Roach flicked her ears and whinnied quietly in response. He had known the unconscious girl and horse had formed the bond out of necessity. Also, he surmised it was a bond which allowed her to feel closer to the witcher. What did the girl hope to accomplish from her relationship with Geralt? It was a weakness the assassin would seek to take advantage of. The girl's feelings disgusted him. He did not understand it. Once more, he questioned how this little whelp could be what his mistress was waiting for. She was too fragile and naive to be of any help. Swearing softly, he knew the young girl was weak.

A bird cried out shrilly from the trees on his left. The assassin turned his head, glaring into the thick underbrush. He stopped swiftly, tilted his head, and listened. As he listened, he barely breathed. This was what he was trained to do, to remain patient. There was no one who could sneak up on the assassin. Clenching his left fist, he felt the cold, thin metal crossing the palm of his hand. Then, he pushed in a raised button. Immediately, series of metallic, rhythmic clicks sounded from him. Slowly, the tip of a long, slim, steel dagger protruded from beneath his arm-guard. Because he was quicker and stronger than a human, the man did not need the element of surprise to kill his victims if they were not witchers. He could rely on his brute strength. Much later, Laelithra's Arcani lover would perfect the design based on this wannabe-witcher's hidden dagger mechanics. It would become an identifying characteristic of their position in the order.

Another shrill bird called out in answer to the other. There was an unusual rhythm to the calls. The sound echoed in his ears. Once more, he searched for the bird. Concealed by the underbrush and thick leaves of the trees, he could not see any animal. It bothered the man. Throughout his journey to this particular cave, he had noticed many animals. Rabbits scurried in the underbrush. Deer stood proudly at the edge of the road, thinking they were hidden by the trees. He had always seen them when he ventured this area to get to the base they had here. It was one of those things he would considered a constant. Presently, he could not see any of the wild life.

A large man stepped out from the trees. He towered over the assassin, having a good two feet on him. The man was thin, resembling a large sapling. Wet, stringy red hair covered his face. Leather armor clothed his tall lean torso. Spots of blood dotted the material. Cold, sapphire eyes set out of his dirt-caked face. In his right hand, he brandished a naked steel sword. Its blade Beside him, three other thugs stood, sneering. "Look here, boys," he said, scowling widely. "A boy with a young girl."

Laelithra lifted her head slightly. A dark bruise showed on the skin around her right eye. Immense swelling encircled her eye, blocking off most of her view. In the part of her brown eye was visible, thick red lines stretched out from the far corner. Her skin was pale, resembling a wraith.

"She is mine," the assassin replied, calmly. He rose to his full height. Intensely, his eyes smoldered with possession and anger. While most would find the term endearing, since the assassin was protecting her, it was not that way. She was just goods he was smuggling to his mistress. The young girl was no different to him than furs, trinkets, or food.

"Coop, I don't know. He is well armed," a voice emerged from the forest. Perching on a tree branch, a half elf gazed at the scene on the road. This was the one who sounded the first _bird_ call. He lined up his crossbow at the assassin.

'Coop' did not answer his fellow. Instead, he laughed and spit a dark fluid between his teeth. It landed in a thick glob on the ground before the assassin, horse, and Laelithra. "I don't like you, freak. I'm going to sell that little girl after we gut you. With some food and water, she will fetch a pretty coin from someone with exotic tastes," he taunted the other man. "Oh yes, someone will have fun with that pretty, little, light-haired thing."

Dropping the rope that kept the horse under his control, the assassin started to walk towards the group of four. His stride was slow and determined. Arrogance coursed through him. No dwarf, elf, or human could hope match to his steel blades. He knew that. It was a pity the others did not. Yet, he had no qualms teaching them.

Roach stood there, patiently. It was as if Geralt, himself, told the horse to wait. The wind blew her mane wildly as she breathed softly.

This was the chance Laelithra had waited for. She could have urged the horse forward, charging in a fury past her captor. In fact, it was what she should have done. Everything she was trained in pointed at a means for escape. There would always be someone stronger than she was. Viktor taught her that she would never be as physically strong as a boy. Geralt reinforced the idea, deciding to focus on her speed. All the training was for naught. She stood still like the Roach.

Similarly to the Roach, Laelithra's spirit had been crushed. He had broken her completely. So as the assassin calmly walked to his targets, the horse and the girl waited patiently. Both awaited their predetermined fates.

Coop and his "boys" went to meet the assassin. Two more men appeared out of the forest, blocking off the man's chance to escape. They circled him in a tight oval. Five swords and one halberd glittered in the rain. Drops of water poured off of them and their weapons.

Slowly, the assassin walked, without fear. An assassin of Ellarian Jhaer did not fear death. She had breed them to serve her goals.. They were her elite soldiers, following her commands without question. Of course, they were better than the creatures she employed for payments of flesh and blood. The assassins worked for a want of destruction and murder. Chaos breeds chaos, and Jhaer rewarded well.

'Half-elf' squinted his eye, looking directly at the man before him. The sight of his crossbow was lined up to the assassin's heart. With one easy motion, he could be laying dead before them. Then, the girl would be theirs to do with whatever they wished. He pulled the trigger, pushing a vertical rod up and releasing the string.

The bolt whistled through the air, passing the trees and underbrush.

Immediately, the assassin was ready. One of his steel swords jumped forth in his hand. The blade was less decorated than his silver, thin blades. His sword flashed in a diagonal path, parting the rain before him. Deflecting a bolt in flight was one of the easiest things to do. In fact, it was one of the first things taught to members who wished to serve the Mistress in the capacity that he did. Many of the initiates did not survive the initiation. As the bolt hit his blade, it bounced off and spiraled to his left. After his deflection, he sheathed his blade again. Most of the rain was dispersed around the projectile.

One of the men on his left looked down at his chest. The bolt protruded fully from his patched leather jerkin. Feathers splattered lightly with his blood. As his eyes widened, he let out a loud, primal scream. It was the sound of an animal dying. Quickly, he dropped to his knees and fell over. Under the strain of his weight, the bolt snapped in half.

At the same time, the assassin retrieved a dagger, raised it, and let it fly. The dagger flew through the air at the same speed as the bolt. It passed the trees and shrubbery in its angle.

A dull smack could be heard as the weapon had found its home. The Half Elf neither cried out, nor made any other noise as the blade landed within the flesh of his forehead. Blood gushed in a thin, solid line from the wound, flowing between his eyes and dripping off his pointed nose. Without a sound, he fell from his perch.

The assassin said nothing. He was purely focused on his targets. It was as it was supposed to be. His mentor had trained him to concentrate fully on his opponent. While the aggression and arrogance flowed inside of him, there was another side. He enjoyed death and destruction. Yet, he would not let the blood lust consume his thoughts.

They came towards him, circling him in a tightening loop. The bandits moved as one. Because the assassin looked normal, they were convinced that they would win. After all, one man could not hope to defeat an entire band. Their blades bristled with each tip pointing at the man in the middle. The entire forest was eerily silent.

Suddenly, the one on the right advanced. He ran at a full sprint at the assassin with his long sword bobbing at his side. Dirt kicked up behind his heels in his hurried fury. His eyes burned with malcontent. Two males vying over a prize. Raising the sword over his head, he tried to bring it down and bury it to the hilt in the strange man's skull.

The assassin reached his hands up, grabbing both arms of his opponent. His muscles flexed in response to his movement. Adrenaline coursed inside of him, causing him to crave the blood of his opponents. Blood roared in his ears as he spun and brought the man's arms tightly against himself.

Immediately, the bandit screamed as the spin forced his hands down, burying the long sword deep within his belly. Crimson blood leaked from the wound, mixing with the dirt on the ground. He dropped to his knees, unable to retaliate. With his wounds, there were only three bandits and 'Coop' left.

Two more rushed him from both sides. Their grunts could be heard as they ran across the dirt path. Both were lean and muscular. Quicker than he could think possible, they barreled down on him. He could smell the stink on them as they approached.

Calmly, the assassin reached both of his hands out. His dark eyes burned with hatred. Confidence oozed from his movements, settling deep within his body. Once more, he did not feel a thing but hatred. As they rushed into his outstretched hands, they pushed on the buttons of his hidden punch daggers. A series of metallic clicks sounded as the blades were let free of their positions completely. This was the part he loved. He stared in their round eyes, filled with horror, as their breathing was cut off. Pulling his hands back, the blades dripped with gore and blood. Once more, he pushed on the button on the palm of his hand. Immediately, the blades retracted smoothly.

Their light eyes boggled. Each raised their hands to their throats. After a second, thick blood started to ooze from their wounds, following over their fingers and soaking into their clothing. Together, they slumped to the ground. The red liquid trailed from their necks, encircling their heads as a crimson halo.

The only ones left were 'Coop' and his last henchman. Suddenly, Laelithra screamed hoarsely. The assassin's gaze were brought to her right away. He saw 'Coop' standing over the fallen girl. Blood smeared on Laelithra's shoulder, revealing the red meat of her shoulder. Rage filled him. It was not because he wished to protect the girl. No, the bandit was jeopardizing his standing with the mistress.

"I will not let you have your girlfriend, freak," 'Coop' snarled. This time the man rushed towards him.

Laelithra lay on the ground, clutching her shoulder. Blood trickled over her fingertips, spreading down her dress. She shivered as she slipped into shock. Since the girl had stopped eating and drinking, it was a very real possibility that she would die. The wounds would be slow to close.

As 'Coop' thrust the halberd at him, the assassin grabbed the long shaft with both hands. Raising his foot up, he kicked the man in the chest and caused him to stumble a few steps back. The halberd spun in his hands quickly until he pointed the bottom at his foe. Quickly, he jabbed the point into the man's lungs. He heard the satisfying crunch. Blood splashed up as he withdrew the pointed tip.

'Coop' cried out as he held both of his hands to his chest. The blood sprayed once again, saturating the two opponent's. The crimson liquid bubbled forth from his lips, wetting them in a thick foam. It spurted from the wound in a mist with each dying gasp.

Quickly, the assassin spun the halberd around. The weapon screamed with fury as it was brought down, swiftly. The rain and blood splattered as a slicing sound echoed through the woods.

'Coop's' head rolled and bounced on the dirt path. It came to rest at the feet of the last remaining bandit. He screamed before breaking out into a full run. If the man had hoped the assassin would have showed him mercy, he was mistaken. The assassin was excellent at what he did, and he did not leave any witnesses. A witness could identify him or seek his death later. Another dagger flew through the air, landing with a dull thud in the spine of the man. He tumbled forth to die where he landed.

Scowling, the assassin turned back to Laelithra. Her wound would need sewing. He doubted if it would heal right with the lack of food and drink. Even if he had to force her, she would eat that eve.

…...

Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at the menacing man. She tried to move and adjust her position on the narrow log he had set her on. His hand gripped her shoulder, clenching it roughly The agony exploded into tiny ivory stars, causing her to whimper in pain. Thick clumps of her hair lay around the log Laelithra felt out of touch with reality as the blood dripped onto an emerald leaf slowly. The wound refused to heal.

Beside them, the fire glowed crimson. Hanging by a wooden pole above the fire, amber liquid boiled in a metal container. She tried not to think about the single bone he placed in the pot followed by water. There was no vegetables or actual meat in the soup he was making. A hideous stench arose, surrounding the assassin and the little girl.

The light illuminated his skin, making him appear to glow with malice. Slowly, his brown eyes constricted automatically into tiny slitted lines. While Geralt reminded her of a cat, the boy reminded her of a snake. It was what he and his order were: a lurking threat in the underbrush of the world. Once more, he made the needle pierce her shoulder, sinking deeply into the reddening flesh. He did not use any numbing plants and would grin when she whimpered in pain.

The was no fight left in Laelithra. In fact, she slumped. She would straighten her back when she felt the tightening of his hand and the thick twine and broad needle would enter her shoulder. It felt like pieces of her flesh were being torn apart. Agony and distress threatened to tear her in twain. Yet, she could not lift her head to look at him.

He did not speak. Instead, she could hear the steady rise and fall of his breath. As he crouched before her, his leather trousers creaked in protest. His thin lips spread into a sneer. She knew he enjoyed the fact that 'Coop' had wounded her, and the scar would mar her flesh. The man was sadistic like that.

Once more, her body jerked as the twine passed through her skin. She sat limply with her hands dangling against the log. Her breath hissed out between her chapped lips, coming out in thin puffs. Laelithra did not respond to the pain. There was no amount of training that could make her ignore it. It was quite the opposite. Because of her condition, she could not feel the agony of the wounds. The jerking and hissing was her body's natural response to the torture the assassin was putting her through.

His eyes flared again with each pass of the thick thread. As the skin of her shoulder pulled closed, he grinned with glee. Laelithra knew he hated to fix her wounds, and he was making himself enjoy it by trying to hurt her. The assassin sucked in his bottom lip. Teeth gleamed predatory as if he was a shark

Within of her body, she shivered. This assassin repulsed the young girl. If she could move her body, she would have recoiled in disgust. Everything about him disgusted her. He gripped her face hard. Her stomach rolled as she could smell the stale liquor on his breath. With one final plunge of the needle and thick twine, the flesh of her shoulder was pulled tightly closed.

After he clipped the twine, he stood up and walked away from her. He cursed loudly.

With painful effort, she lifted her head and gazed at the assassin, illuminated by the fire.

He bent over the pot, stirring it vigorously. His tunic and trousers made no sound as he moved, quickly. The agility reminded Laelithra of a feline. The assassin was proud, strong, and fast like a lion. Briefly, she watched the back of his short, blonde hair blowing in the wind. Muscles underneath the ebony tunic flexed. A grey sash waved in the breeze like a flag leading a warrior into battle.

Despite her hatred, Laelithra was reminded of how appealing this boy was to her. She felt her heart race as she looked at him with child-like wonder. He was her tormentor. Many times would he beat her for not doing what she asked? It was the way of the type of man he was, so, she learned to behave and tried please him when he asked something of her. The assassin was apt not to be violent with her. Laelithra's spirit had been taken away by him.

Yet, there was another side to him which she could not explain. He was different from the two witchers. While there was the harsh side to him, she could not ignore that other side. The assassin saved her from that man. Despite everything, he was her savior. His touch made her belly twist into knots. It tingled intensely. Of course, the touch reminded her of her father and Geralt. However, there was a difference in it. Sensations hummed wherever he grasped her, causing her to cry out on more than one occasion. Repulsion ate away at her for those thoughts. No amount of tingling sensations could convince her that the man was not the enemy.

Once more, she dropped her head and placed her chin against her chest. It was becoming more difficult to keep her head up and focus on him. Starvation, thirst, and shock had made her vulnerable to the assassin's charms. She wished to be dead than to willingly aid the man and his order. For this reason, she refused food and water. Laelithra cringed deep within herself, imagining the things the boy's order wished to do to her and with her.

The grass crunched softly, betraying the stalking predator's gait. She recognized the look in his methodical eyes, seeing it in the alpor's eyes as the creature tried to maim Geralt. He sought to harm and control her. Laelithra could feel the hatred and disgust rolling off of him in waves. It tried to reach for her, dragging her down to his level. Gracefully, he sat next to her on the log. His leather squeaked softly with the motion.

As he clenched the top of her hair and jerked her head up hard, there was no sound of pain escaping her lips. Her eyes would not focus on him. Laelithra sat limply, breathing shallowly.

Placing a wooden bowl between his legs, he scooped some liquid on the spoon. The amber liquid splashed against the sides of the spoon. Drops of the golden life-given liquid landed with thick plops on the grass and Laelithra's dirty dress. His eyes burned with rage. With a disgusted sigh, he pushed the spoon against her lips. "I do not see what the Mistress expects from you, but I know I will **not **allow you to affect my position in our Order," he sneered, pressing the spoon hard against her lips.

If he thought his words would force her to eat, he was sorely mistaken. She sucked her lips in, refusing to allow the spoon to enter her mouth. Her body quaked as he pressed the spoon against her mouth again. What was he going to do to her if she did not eat? Would he kill her? Laelithra did not think so because his mistress needed her. As long as she was needed, she would be useful to them. Why did they want her? What did they wish from her? The little girl did not understand or know.

Several more times, the spoon pressed against her lips. Each time, she had the same reaction. Her lips would press together tightly. The greasy broth coated the outside of her mouth, chin, and cheeks. She would not help them. While he had broken her spirit, she would not be a willing slave to their demands. Laelithra would rather die before that happened.

He was growing more frustrated with each try, growling profanity. She could hear his teeth grind together. His breaths came out in angry puffs. Immediately, he placed the spoon in the bowl. Drawing his brow in a thin line, he stared into her dark eyes. "If you do not eat or drink, I will hurt you," he threatened, scowling.

If she could have moved, she would have shied away from his hand. Her cheeks reddened significantly, coloring her pale skin. Embarrassment coursed through her veins, mixing with the tingling sensation of his hand. She hated him for the feelings he stirred in her heart. Laelithra hated him for making her afraid. Instantly, her chest clenched painfully.

Again, he lifted the spoon to her lips. His eyes reflected his threat, magnifying the promise. He was silent.

She looked away out of the corner of her dark eye. The other was swollen painfully. Laelithra could not see out of it. Shame spread throughout her as she opened her mouth. Immediately, the taste of salt, grease, and bits of fat caused her to gag harshly. It tried to slide down her throat, causing her to cough harshly. As the broth hit her stomach, it felt as if a rock hit her in the gut. Moaning softly, she tried not to vomit. Yet, the feeling was powerful. Bending over, she vomited a thick, yellow liquid. A putrid stench rose from the puddle.

"Oh, the girl can't take her broth," he scolded. His thin lips moved upwards in a sneer. The perverse boy was taking enjoyment from her discomfort and torture. Once more, he the spoon, and the girl swallowed the vile concoction.

Laelithra refused to vomit again. She would not have him taking pleasure from her suffering. Silently, she called out to Geralt for help. Something inside of her told her he was coming after them. The witcher would see the assassin would be punished for his treatment of the young girl.

"We shall travel straight through tomorrow. Then you will know what real pain is, girl," he threatened again. Quickly, he poured more of the broth in her mouth, causing Laelithra to call out for Geralt, in her mind.

…...

The clattering of stones woke the small girl. The dull, rhythmic sound of the horse's steps echoed through the sparse lands. Rocks clattered, ricocheting down the steep path. Coldness entered her and caused her to shiver. The feeling gripped her. Thick crimson marks circled her wrists. Her captor had forgone the binds which held her. She had no reason to escape. There was no fight left inside her. Laelithra was merely human, and she broke.

Trees dotted the rocky landscape. Saplings rose from their rocky bed stretching their spindly arms towards the heavens. Clumps of grass dotted the rocky, brown road. The cold breeze swirled around them. Frigid air swirled the few flowers and leaves around the Roach's hooves.

A steam of white mist from the brown, wide nostrils of the horse. She placed her steps carefully. It was as if the horse could sense where the weak spots on the trail were. The Roach would avoid them as much as possible. While Geralt purchased the horse for a bargain, she was actually a dark chestnut Percheron. Her dark eyes reflected the intelligence lurking within the creature. A Percheron horse took pride in their ability to carry heavy loads. Most often, her breed could be found working along aside individuals who were working a mine. Because their legs held massive power, the horses could carry large loads of material. In fact, it was when the witcher stumbled on a prospering mine when he purchased the Roach from a dwarf. The horse was his after a few gold coins were exchanged. It was one of the better bargains he had made.

During her time with Geralt, the Roach had been a constant companion to him. While in the beginning of their travels he used a sign on her to calm her, she came to care for the witcher. He did not use Axii on her much anymore because she willingly accompanied him to places dwarfs, elves, and humans feared to tread. She was brave and foolish. The Roach resembled the personality of the young girl. Perhaps, it was why the White Wolf cared for Laelithra.

At the top of the trail, the worn path disappeared into the immense opening of a cave. On both sides of the black entrance, tall, slender rocks jutted out of the ground. Each resembled a dragon's tang. Few spots of mushrooms grew between the craggy teeth. While summer winds blew in the forest below them, a cold wind swirled around them. Snow rested on the cracks of the cave, filling it like icing on a pastry. The snow draped across the branches of the few trees circling the cave. White powdered the ground, allowing the emerald green of grass to show in spots.

The cold made Laelithra shiver involuntary. Her skin was exposed to the frigid temperatures, causing her to quake on the inside. Stains of her platinum hair fell around her. She had not eaten. True to his word, the assassin had hurt her. Her body burned with embarrassment. Laelithra could not look him in the eyes without remembering how he hurt her. The lesson was well learned. At supper, she had taken her first bite of the grey meat. Every day since, her physical strength returned by minuscule amounts.

Yet, at what cost? Her spirit had diminished. Laelithra did not have the will to fight any of his aggression anymore. When he hit her, she laid there and took it. Laelithra did not have Geralt's resilience to handle any situation, nor did she have Viktor's tenacity to overcome her odds. She was just a normal girl, a little girl. At the present, she was afraid of dying in some cave with no-one, save a lonesome witcher, remembering her. With the exception of being raised by Viktor, she was a normal little girl. It was far from the truth. While she was human, she had seen too much of both of the witchers' ways. Laelithra could never be normal.

"This is the the Mistress's domain," the assassin remarked, icily. With his free arm, he motioned around him. "Here, she sees all. She knows all."

Laelithra's gaze settled on the man before her. She did not know who his Mistress was. During their short stay in the temple in Ellander, the witcher did not find any information of the cult in the tomes which dotted the library's floors and shelves. Apparently, this mistress employed both humans and monsters. Why would they join together and forget their differences? Things were not as clearly black and white as it looked. There had to be a reason why the two species co-existed, and Laelithra could not think of one good reason.

Immediately, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up. As the assassin and the Roach halted, her platinum hair swung rhythmically and brushed against her cheeks. In a way, she looked forward to going into the cave. She knew it would provide warmth. Once more, the cold breeze of the mountains ate at her bones. Laelithra huddled deep onto the worn saddle.

He approached her, stalking towards her like a cat approaching its prey. It was exactly what she was to the man. She was his chance to rise in rank of the Arcani. In an organization like the Arcani, one backstabbed and fought to ascend ranks if they did not have the Lady's favor. If one was deemed unneeded, they were brutally killed to feed their maleficent sisters. The reason was rather simple, after all. The Arcani needed the best of their brothers and sisters. What were they planning, she thought to herself.

His hands gripped her thin waist, pinching her skin between his arm-guards.

The pain rushed up her waist. She cried out as she tried to move away from him. While she was used to the boy's sadistic nature, the pain was sudden and took her by surprise.

He did not mean to hurt her. Of course, he loved the intake of air between her young lips. It was a thing he learned to love during their brief trek through the wilderness and mountain path. The sight of blood and pain excited the teenage boy. His gloves and arm-guards smelled like blood and leather. Those smells smells would frighten her later on in life.

Closing her eyes tightly, she prayed to a goddess she did not believe in. If Melitele would see fit for her to be back in the camp with Geralt, she would return to the temple and train to be one of the priestesses. She wished to be with the witcher or her father. Since her father died, Geralt was the only one she had.

Once more, she opened her eyes. Her gaze settled back on the assassin. As she bit the inside of her lip, he lifted her from the saddle and placed her on the ground. She could have run to get away from him or attempt to get one of his swords away from him. It was what her father would have done. Perhaps, she could have talked her way out of the situation. There were times she witnessed Geralt talk villagers down. Yet, she knew. The man was agile, and she could never hope to take one of his swords away from him. A person who was sadistic could not be talked down. He enjoyed one thing: hurting her.

He pulled out his steel sword and glared at the Roach. The animal had ceased being useful. As he stood with his feet apart and brought the sword back, Laelithra knew what was coming next. It would happen to her if his Mistress did not find the young girl beneficial.

Laelithra closed her eyes tightly. The young girl did not want to see what would come next. During her travels with Geralt, the Roach had became a companion to her too. She loved the horse like she loved all animals. To see what the assassin was going to do would haunt her until she died.

The air beside her made a loud whooshing sound as his sword cut through it. She could feel the animal rear up against the brutal onslaught with a terrified neigh. The sound seemed to echo around her, buzzing deeply in her ears. A dull, wet thump landed beside her. It sent strains of her hair flying backwards in the sickening breeze. Wetness splashed over her cheeks and forehead, dripping down the angelic curves of her face.

Immediately, the young girl forced her eyes open. Bile rose to her throat as she looked at the scene before her.

The Roach lay on her side, her legs spasming as she attempted to get up. A deep gash stretched across her brown abdomen. Thick grey tubes slithered out of the wound, writhing like snakes. Steam rose from the intestines, causing a sweet smell to rise wafting through the air. Instantly, the horse let out another agonizing cry. Crimson pooled underneath the body, painting the ground like some ritual gone awry.

Driven by an instinct she could not ignore, the young girl rushed the Roach. She bent down beside the dying animal. Laelithra had seen so much death in her life, but something about this death bothered her more. The Roach was not just a draft horse to her. Over the time Laelithra traveled with the animal, she became close to it. Swiftly, she brushed the strains of its mane out of its dimming eyes. "It will be over soon," she said, reassuringly.

One of the corners of the assassin's mouth lifted in a grin. Blood soaked his body, staining his armor and clothes red. He grabbed her arm, twisting it hard. "Get up. The Mistress will want to see you. You do not want to make her wait," he murmured, fanatically. When she refused, he pulled hard and made her stand.

A thin medallion rocked back and forth, peeking from his shirt. She recognized the ruby eyes set inside of a snarling wolf's head. Of course, she forgot about the medallion because her father had not shown it to her since she was two. Now, it swung around this man's neck. It was the only connection to her father's past. It was clear in her mind. The assassin acquired it after he murdered her father.

Before they stepped into the engulfing darkness of the cave, she twisted her head to the side as far as she could. Her gaze could not leave the horse.

"Do not worry. She will make a fine meal for Stigandr. He rarely enjoys a fresh kill." The man smiled, showing his white, ivory teeth like a predator.

Onward, they traveled into the swollen, unending darkness.


	6. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

Blackness enveloped them completely. She could not see before her. To her disgust, she had to reach out to feel the walls. They felt cold and hard. Maybe, the assassin was made of the stones from this cave. Laelithra would not doubt it. He was cruel to her on many occasions; hard and cold.

Immediately, the assassin placed his arm around her shoulders. She felt the brush of his sash as it swayed against the worn, blood-stained cloth of her dress.

With each movement of the plain material, dread grew in the young girl. It washed over her, coating her with its ebony, viscous substance. Her heart hammered in her chest as they journeyed into the bowels of the cave. As they walked further, her stomach twisted into knots. Bile and lunch threatened to overcome her. If she could even call what they had earlier lunch. To Laelithra, no man could cook a decent meal.

When she traveled with her father, he would fix some version of sauerkraut. The yellow cabbage gave off a smell that reeked worse than when her father went tromping through sewers. It would rise and fall as if it was breathing. There was nothing she could have done about it. Sauerkraut was a traditional staple, and her father had insisted on it. One of the main reasons was the fermented cabbage kept while some of the other ingredients did not.

Yet, the sauerkraut did not matter to her. He had made her eat herbs and mosses until those in his garden had begun to run out. She knew what followed the ingestion of those herbs. Diarrhea. Upset Stomach. Vomiting.

On the other side, there was Geralt. Smiling, she remembered what kind of cook he was.

_The stars started to emerge behind the mass of clouds overhead. One by one, they twinkled and reminded the young girl of the fireflies floating around the campfire. They illuminated Geralt, making him appear like a ghostly visage._

He leaned against a stump, stretching out his legs. Slowly, he brought his finger up to the medallion and pushed it, causing the wolf's head to spin. The fire gleamed on the buckles and latches of his tall, leather boots and tight trousers and the rubied eyed wolf's head medallion.. Dark circles lined the bottom of his eyes, wrinkling the flesh and scars. Geralt had not slept well since he had known Laelithra. It was beginning to show. Her dreams in the light of day and night terrors in the blackness of night. She would never tell him what she dreamed or the cause of the hysteria. 'Make no mistake, child. He will die" was the only thing he could glean from her. Often, he would tell her it was just a dream before lapsing into silence while he held her. Laelithra had no reason not to believe it and would fall to sleep in his arms.

The stars started to emerge from behind the mass of clouds overhead. One by one, they twinkled and reminded the young girl of the fireflies floating around the campfire. They illuminated Geralt, making him appear as a _ghostly visage._

He leaned against a stump, stretching out his legs. Slowly, he brought his finger up to the medallion and pushed it, causing the wolf's head to spin. The fire gleamed on the buckles and latches of his tall, leather boots and tight trousers and the rubied eyed wolf's head medallion.. Dark circles lined the underside of his eyes, wrinkling the flesh and scars. Geralt had not slept well since he had known Laelithra. It was beginning to show: her dreams in the light of day and night terrors in the blackness of night. She would never tell him what she dreamed or the cause of the hysteria. 'Make no mistake, child. He will die" was the only thing he could glean from her. Often, he would tell her it was just a dream before lapsing into silence while he held her. Laelithra had no reason not to believe it and would fall asleep in his arms.

Tearing her gaze away from Geralt, she bent and picked up a wooden spoon. A cool spring breeze surrounded both of them in its welcoming embrace. It made her platinum hair flutter in the wind. Her dress clung to her, revealing the lanky twig-like legs. Slowly, she dipped the spoon into the pot above of the fire.

The grey lump of glutenous broth seethed, spreading thin bubbles across its surface. Occasionally, bits of uniform ashen-colored meat would surface and rest atop of the ooze. It was not long until the viscous material would swallow the bits of heart once more. As the spoon penetrated, the broth quivered all around it.

With a grunt of effort, she began to stir the liquid. It protested. Laelithra wondered if the broth was alive. Raising the spoon to her lips, she stared at the portions of meat and liquid. She grimaced. As the smell of rancid meat wafted to her, she fought down the urge to gag. Coughing, she could feel bits of their breakfast rise in her throat.

_Yet, she closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and tasted the witcher's fetid meal. Instantly, a wave of revulsion came over her. Her body's reaction to the food was harsh. Laelithra's stomach heaved at the sensations. The broth seemed to bite at her taste buds. Tears welled up in her eyes as she tried not to throw up. "Ugh," she moaned, calling out across the camp to Geralt._

His fingers stopped in motion, causing the medallion to twirl. Over the amulet and embers of fire, his eyes sparkled with an emotion he often tried to hide. One of the corner of his mouth tried to pull itself up into a crooked, ugly smile. "What?" he asked, innocently.

"This is...its...ugh," she moaned again. "It's not good. It tastes like something that came out of the Roach's arse!"

"How many times do I have to tell you not to swear?" he replied, seriously. His eyes did not harden as he spoke. "Cooking does not interest me like alchemy or creature lore. If I make the food, I don't care if it tastes good. I only care that it gives me what I need. If I wanted it to taste good, I would have someone else make it."

"You bought saffron, did you not?"  
_  
He nodded his reply, quickly. Instantly, he went back to spinning the medallion._

"Well, will you please hand me some and the bottle of that alcohol you always drink?" she asked, softly. At first, she thought he was going to refuse. Geralt of Rivia had her fetch things. It was part of her training. Then, she heard the creaking sound of leather in motion.

Geralt walked to the little girl's side in a purposeful stride. He bent and gave her a few purple petaled flowers before taking the spoon.

"I'm going to show you that food does not need to look, smell, and taste like some monster's corpse you sell for coin," she quipped. Instantly, she saw the scowl appear on his face. For a brief moment, she wondered why he always frowned. She took the bottle of rye from him and dumped some into the pot.

"What are you doing?" he cried. Geralt snatched the bottle away from her and took a long pull from the bottle.

"I'm trying to thin out this...I don't even know what to call it. Stir."

Instantly, Geralt started to stir it. The alcohol merged with the oozing broth. They converged, thinning out and becoming a smoother liquid. Still, there were lumps of the gelatinous substance.

One by one, she picked the stamens of the dried herb out between the petals. As she was doing so, a smell released from the flowers. Laelithra could only be reminded of her father's barn. She dropped one of the stamens into the broth as Geralt continued to stir.

"It's already starting to smell good," he complimented. He took some of the broth and the spoon to his lips to taste it.

"Stop!" she cried out, feigning concern. "Leave it alone, or you'll ruin it." Next, she did something unlikely. Quickly, she reached up and slapped his hand away.

Geralt stared at her for a long moment. His eyes widened in surprise. Gold wreathed in flame. Of course, he had never expected her to actually hit him. For a long moment, he surveyed the girl. Geralt's thin lips quivered as if anger was washing over him.

Laelithra held his gaze with her own dark one. How was he going to react? The young girl did not know of any time he lost himself in anger and beat her. Yet, the fear of what other men had done reared itself.

To the surprise of Laelithra, the male witcher started to chuckle. It was a dry sounding laugh, but it was special in _its own way._

The two looked silly, standing there with each other while the witcher laughed. Laelithra came up to his side, and he resembled a man that could be old enough to be her grandfather. Despite Laelithra forcing him to take her with him, the two co-existed and were somewhat happy. 

She was happy then, or she was happier than she was now. It was at that moment that she realized exactly what Geralt of Rivia was to her. He was her mentor and trainer. However, he was her friend. The assassin was not, and she feared him. Looking through the blackness, she watched his gleaming eyes nervously.

They passed cavern after cavern. The two traveled deeper into the bowels of Laelithra's personal hell until they came to the center room.

Three braziers lined each wall, casting an ominous glow. Thick lines of blood blanketed the walls, streaking down. Several had fingernails lodged in them as individuals tried to claw their way away from something. Strange colored stalactites hung low from the ceiling, shimmering silvery-red in the firelight. In the center, there was a throne carved from the living rock itself.

A woman sat on the throne with her legs crossed. Long, ashen hair covered her exposed breasts, curving around her sides. Clear eyes stared out of smooth, grey flesh. Tiny fangs glistened in the flickering light. As she saw them, she rose. In her right hand, her clawed fingers curled around the stem of a wine glass filled with a thick, crimson liquid. It slithered from her movement as if it was alive. _Ah, Brother. You have returned, and you have brought your quarry. This pleases me._

The assassin dropped down to his knees in the presence of this woman. As he prostrated before her, his lips kissed the ground she walked on. He reminded Laelithra of an animal. Why doesn't he raise his eyes to her? She asked herself.

_Child of Viktor, I have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. I am Ellarian Jhaer, and you- you will be very useful to me._

Laelithra felt the creature lift one of her arms. The air rushed past her cheek, caressing it like a mother's touch. As the bruxa brought her clawed hand down, buzzing sounded in her ears. The light flashed behind her eyes.

Blood. Terror. Darkness.

…...

The blood roared in her ears. A thick, dull pain started thumping at the center of her head before arcing across her entire brain like chain-lightning moving across the clouds. Light flashed behind her eyes, sparking with each pulse of throbbing agony. She moved. As she wormed on the dirty, rocky floor, flames of distress seared into her ankles and wrists. When she moaned softly, she found she could barely open her mouth. Her bottom lip resembled a leech, swelling with blood. It stung as she whimpered, throbbing with an incessant, stabbing sensation. Dirt and tiny fragments of rock and bone ground into the wound on her lips, reopening the split. Laelithra tried to spit out the debris and blood that stuck to her tongue and to the inside of her mouth. It was a futile effort because she lay face down on the floor. Every time she spit, more of the dirt, rock, and bone would cling to her bloody lips. Blood dripped in rhythmic plops on the floor beneath her.

She flipped onto her back. As her back hit the ground, a groan was pushed out of her lungs and quietly through her cracked, swollen lips. Her dirty hair soaked in the quarter sized puddles of blood on the floor. The platinum ends tinted red, and pieces of gore plastered strands of it together. Laelithra was laying next to the throne with her wrists and ankles bound by a thick, braided rope. Each strain of material cut deep within her ankles and wrists, making more of her blood rise to the surface. Plasma wet the twine. Beside her and the throne, a wooden table stood proudly. In the center, there was a silver tray with plump, violet and green grapes and a long, stemmed glass filled with a crimson liquid. Immediately, her stomach growled with hunger and revulsion. Because she had seen much in her young life, she knew the congealing liquid was blood.

Sniffling drifted from the front of the room to her. It surrounded her, burning deeply into her thoughts. The sound triggered a deep, buried memory. As it washed over her like a wave, she tried to bring her hands up to cover her ears. Her stomach contracted in distress. Sticky strains of rope forbade the movement, and her wrists burned in agony as a result.

The light from the braziers flickered, making skin and objects glow like rubies. Blood coated the walls in places, peeling off as it dried. It landed on the floor, adding to the small piles of blood flakes, bone chips, and strips of flesh that were already strewn about.

"Stop being a baby!" a masculine voice boomed from the entrance of the stone room. "It is an honor to become one with the Mistress. You shall see, little brother."

Lifting up her head, she stared into the dark entrance of the room. Occasionally, sunlight would filter through cracks in the high ceiling. Particles of dust and ore floated in the beams of light. She tried to see who the man was talking to. The recognition hammered in her heart. Anger and fear mixed deep within her. She closed her eyes. Perhaps, the images would leave her if she refused to look at them.

Opening her eyes, she refocused on the entrance of the cavernous room. Anxiety twisted her insides, making them feel like knotted ropes. Her stomach cramped and fluttered. She tried to ignore the feeling, to make it go away, but it stayed with her. The agony slammed into her chest like a battering ram. Once more, she squeezed her eyes shut.

It was a possibility that the creature and the assassin had given her whatever was in the goblet the female monster was holding. Any number of herbs would make her hallucinate. Snapping her lips, she tried to taste what they had given her.

A number of children would have reacted similarly. Once, she tried to find out what kind of ferns, mosses, and mushrooms her father fed her. Viktor locked those special herbs down in the cellar. Darkness ruled in that cellar, bathing all in its murkiness. Because Laelithra was a child, the herbs and mushrooms had to come from the forest and the cave's beyond her father's small cottage. One night, her father commanded her to run the trail passing through their woods and near the opening of the cave. Confidence flooded her veins as she was sure he gathered the plants there. Immediately, the young girl gathered all kinds of mushrooms: thick ones with wide caps, pale ones, and iridescent blue ones.

Much later, sickness and fever spread like wildfire throughout her body. Her father caught the poisoning in time, giving her an antidote to the various mushrooms she ate. His kindness was followed by a cruel warning: do not ingest plants when she did not know their properties. For trying to find out the herbs and eating ones she had no knowledge of, he had beaten her mercilessly. Despite the barbaric practice, Viktor had taught her a valuable lesson. Laelithra would never again look for the strange herbs.

As she licked her cracked, bloody lips, no distinct herbal taste sprang to her memory. Her lips stung, swelling to encompass most of the lower part of her face. She felt like someone punched her in her mouth. The young girl did not know how she injured her mouth. Once more, she smacked her lips. Tiny, sticky strains of ebony blood, dirt, and saliva stretched from her top lip to her bottom, making it appear like thin, gory spiderwebs.

Forcing her eyes open, she stared at the entrance of the room again. The light angled down, creating a blue aura around the man. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and drew up to his full height. His chest huffed out, creating the illusion that he was bigger. To Laelithra, she found the masculine display queer. Although she did not realize it at the time, the men she knew in her life did not have to show such a display of prowess. Women approached Geralt and her father. Laelithra was too young to understand what the women wanted from the two witchers. Much later, she would learn.

A movement caught her eyes, forcing her to concentrate through the blinding pain throbbing in her head. Surprise sucked the air from her body. Her eyes widened, and the pain caused a flash of light again. She knew it was no dream.

The sunlight streamed down, making the boy's face seem eerily pale. She recognized the ebony livery with gold and white swirl and half-loop embroidering. Half loops swirled up his dark tunic, twisting around his collar. Two tiny scabbards rubbed against the dark legs of his trousers. A dark leather baldric raced up, crisscrossing the boy's chest. Unlike the man before him and the assassin who abducted her, the boy made no effort to hide the strips of thick leather. Several metals were attached to the black leather. Platinum, straight hair framed his face, swept forward, and stopped at chin-length. Haunting, clear eyes stared out of his fair face. The eyes were so familiar, but so different. He was on her mind since that terrible time those many years ago. For as long as she could remember, she would not forget the look in his eyes.

_eside her, Hare quivered and whined. He shook with fear and revulsion. Hare reacted like any toddler would in his situation. He was frightened, and she tried to comfort him. Even at such a tender age, Laelithra was uncomfortable showing her emotions. Her father beat them out of her. It would take another damaged soul eighteen years to repair the lasting damage wrought by her childhood. Closing her eyes, she could hear his sharp, frantic breathing._

_A part of her resented her brother. He was the oldest. Hare should have been the one comforting her. Once more, she opened her eyes and pressed his head more tightly into her flat chest. The young girl chastised herself silently because she knew Hare could not help the way he was no more than she could help the way she was. Emotionless. Flat. Uncaring. Guilty._

_A wheezing sound snapped her eyes to another body on the floor. She knew the woman. It was her mother's friend. Her lavish ivory robe turned crimson as the blood puddled from the deep wound to her stomach. Laelithra could see the long, grey intestines spill from the wound and roll over her side. They lay in a mass on the floor, soaking in their own fluids. Ebony, curly hair lay soaking in blood, springing tightly against the crown of her head and slender slope of her neck. She tried to pick up her guts and stuffed them back into the open wound. Yet, it was to no avail. Tumbling between her hands, they slipped from her grasp._

_Hare continued to sob within her chest._

_Shuffling sounded on the porch. It reminded Laelithra that they were not alone. Earlier that day, the man with strange eyes barged in during dinner. With fear, she and Hare watched him savagely murder them all. A part of her felt anguish over what he did to her father and her mother's friend. For the first time since she had seen what his razor-sharp sword could do, she shivered. Would he finish what he started?_

_As the noise on the porch sounded nearer, Hare's eyes widened. She could read the terror deep in his gaze. While she tried to deny her own, it coated her insides like a black sludge. In the end, the child was a defenseless, scared, little girl._

_Suddenly, the door swung wide open and crashed into the wall with a loud thump. Bright sunlight filtered into the room. The blood on the floor shined crimson, reflecting the bodies laying on top of it. Sweet scent of June flowers-flowers their mother had planted early that season-wafted into the room. June Flowers. With anguish, Laelithra realized they would never grow there again. No one would plant them, and no one would care for them. Her mother's work would be forever gone._

_The strange man she would later call Father stood framed against the door. His long, ivory ponytail rested on his right shoulder, traveling down to the middle of his breast. Wrinkles creased the corners of his clear, slitted eyes and betrayed his age. Thin lips scowled. Blood smeared on his dark jerkin and white linen shirt. It dotted several of the bottles of elixir strapped to the baldric crisscrossing his chest. "Both of you will come with me now," he growled, softly. His voice sounded metallic as if it was made from the very ore of the planet._

_Whether it was bravado, the tiny wisp of a child stood up and stepped before Hare. She would protect him from the man. Crossing her arms, she glared at him. Neither child said a word._

"_Gather supplies both of you think you will need. We will leave Rivia behind us tonight."_

"_I am not going anywhere with you," Hare squeaked from behind her. Laelithra did not need to see his eyes to know his fear. His voice was thick enough with it._

_Viktor did not utter a word. Instead, he strolled to them in slow, deliberate steps. The young girl knew he meant to frightened them into submission. After all, it was what most men did. He reached his hand up and gripped the leather-wrapped hilt of a sharp sword. Quicker than she thought possible, the blade leaped into his waiting hand. _

_Laelithra shivered as he continued to walk towards them. She remembered the way the fire gleamed off of it as the blade sank deep within the stomach of the woman gasping like a fish on the floor. Her father was a tanner before his death. The young girl remembered all the knifes he had worked with. Once, she had cut herself on the blade. Yet, Viktor's sword was sharper than any her father used in his craft._

_As he passed the woman writhing in her blood on the floor, she continued to try to stuff her entrails back into the wound caused by his weapon. The bundle lay thick in her arms, twisting as if it were snakes. Her mouth would widen in soundless gasps. Laelithra used to think death was a pretty thing. Most of the deceased she had seen had died in their sleep. They looked at peace with themselves and the world around them. Yet, the woman was different. No one writhed like the woman on the floor did. Her gasping reminded Laelithra of a fish on dry land. Lips circled in an eternal O-shape. One dying from a witcher's sword was a horrible thing to witness. It was a lesson that she would learn many times in her life._

_Instantly, Viktor flipped the handle of his weapon in his hand. The end of it pointed downward, towards the blood-soaked wooden floor and the crimson neck of the woman. With a slight thrust and no sound from him, he jammed the sword down. _

_Her eyes bulged in pain. A loud, gurgling sound emitted from her. It sounded around the room, becoming one of those sounds that frightened Laelithra. As a loud popping sound erupted from the woman's neck, Laelithra forced herself to look. Instantly, the other woman stopped writhing on the floor. The intestines slid off of her side again as her hands went limp. Glassy eyes stared up into the cold, calculating eyes of the man. Viktor's sword was buried deep within the neck of the woman._

_Viktor did not stop a moment. Jerking the sword free, blood sprayed in the movement. He continued towards the children as if nothing had happened._

"_I will go with you," she said in a voice she did not recognize. At the same time, she heard Hare cry out, "I will not. You killed pappa and momma's friend."_

"_You are both **mine**. As such, you will come with me." The witcher should have known better than to force destiny by taking Hare with him. It would be a mistake that would haunt the boy, the girl, and the witcher for many years to come._

_Laelithra turned and stared into the eyes of Hare. They were round with terror._

Once more, Laelithra blinked. Even as the images of the past faded away from her, she found herself staring into the eyes of Hare. She did not know when he had finished talking to the man from before or when he had approached her.

He stood inches from her, glaring into her eyes. There was a different glow to them. Shyness and fear were gone from his stance and body. For a brief moment, they reminded her of the cold and penetrating gaze of Viktor. How could a child of five have such a gaze? Yet, she knew she did not have the answer to that. She and Hare had been separated for three years.

Numerous scars dotted his face and neck. The most predominant one traveled from right beneath the young boy's eye to the corner of his mouth, making the flesh in a dark brown jagged line. Laelithra recognized the mark as one of the clawed fingers of the female creature. Sorrow hit her hard. "Why did he give me to them and keep you for himself?" the little boy, chirped. The tone was melodious, yet there was maliciousness around its edges. "Girls can not be what I am. They lack things."

"Hare?" she asked, quietly. Partly, she was silent because she did not want to call attention to herself to those around her. The other reason was because her throat and lips hurt when she talked. Laelithra felt like someone gripped her throat and clenched hard.

"Hare? I suppose you called me Hare. You made fun of me. No, I am not that rodent. My name's Leviticus," he snarled. The little girl had never seen her brother in such a fury. Their father would have been proud.

She did not answer him. Instead, she felt the anxiety grow deep within her belly. Fear ate at her heart. Misery for her brother coiled around her soul. What did they do to him?

He shook his head, causing his platinum hair to sway with the movement. Strains brushed along his cheekbone. "After Momma accepts me, my name's Dhudeith, the Black Flame."

"That _thing_ is not momma," the young girl protested.

Leviticus balled his tiny hand into a fist, lifted it in the air, and punched her in the mouth.

Agony roared in her face. If she was not injured, it would not have hurt as much as it did. Instead, blood flowed freely from her lips and landed with thick, solid plops on the dirt floor. She was left wondering what they did to her brother.


	7. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

The pungent smell of anise drifted to her, turning her stomach. It saturated the air. Sweet, smoky incense mixed with the sweet, licorice scent. Braziers cast off low crimson light, silhouetting textures and playing tricks on the mind. A cream colored mist blanketed the floor, billowing forth from a large, metal cauldron in the center of the room.

At first, her eyes did not adjust well to the dimly lit room. Twisted naked flesh, both men and women, moved rhythmically in an orgy of sensations. Occasionally, a man or woman's spasmodic moan of "Jhaer" could be heard coming from the heap of pleasuring skin. Once, she had seen such a display of people in one of those special houses her father had entered sometimes. Her father would have her sit outside of the establishment of women until he returned. Hours would pass, and she could feel the danger lurking in every corner. Once, she had ventured in to fetch him. To her younger eyes, it looked as if her father was playing games that children played with a young maiden of the house of women. This heap of pleasure was different. A mechanical feeling washed over her.

Laelithra shook her head, feeling light headed. Another vampire servant brought her another glass of the disgusting crimson wine. For some reason, their mistress felt it appropriate to keep the young girl in a drunken stupor. Was the vampire clan afraid of the training her father and the white-haired witcher had her undertake? The young girl could not deny her body had changed from the normal toddler frame. While her father was strict, the White-haired witcher was just as strict in his training. Their physical instructions left the young girl with a willow-thin shape. Muscles in her upper arm flexed as she forced herself to sit up straight. Thick leg muscles allowed her quick, precise movements.

When her training with Geralt began, the first thing he did was go into town, purchased two wooden swords, and visited the seamstress. He told her it was impractical to spar in a dress. The fabric restricted her movements. She could not react as quickly as she needed in a defensive stance or charge in an aggressive sprint. Cloth held her back as it did not allow her to fully expend all of her energy. Plus, it would tear. With that in mind, he ordered two pairs of miniature leather pants and ivory burlap shirts for the small child. Of course, he purchased a few two beige house dresses for her. Everything he bought was practical and had a specific reason. Laelithra changed into the modest dresses after she was done training for the day. The young girl would not lose her femininity because she was training to protect herself in a hostile world. The witcher knew the chances of the young girl finding a nice family and marrying a nice man. Yet, he would not do anything to hinder that chance for Laelithra. The leather pants and shirts were only to be worn when training with him or by herself.

The young girl thought back on Viktor's wisdom. He once told her that monsters would not wait for a woman to change their attire to attack. Ghouls, leshies, and vampires did not care if a woman was in pants or a gown. They were neutral when it came to victims. Yet, she did not question his advice until the white-haired witcher. Sleeves of a gown restricted the strength of a parry. Without power behind the parry, she found it harder to sweep across in a cut. Laelithra would never be as strong as a man, and any hindrance of the strength she had could spell death for her. Also, the lower part of the dress restricted speed. She could not shift into a pirouette without the dress straining against her legs. If it did not strain, the dress would billow out on the bottom as if the young girl was a backwards mushroom. An alp's claws could sink into the material, pulling the girl towards it. No amount of strength or agility could be used once the vampire had hold of the frock. Quickness was important for her dodging. Once she sparred with Geralt, she tripped over the hem of a dress when she went to avoid one of his sword blows. No, Viktor's advice was useless. The young girl understood that now.

Her physical training was not the only thing the white-haired witcher devoted his time to. All the amount of strength in the world could not overcome someone stronger and faster than she. Plus, brute strength could only get one person so far. Yes, there was another side to his training. Geralt had begun to teach her to read, nourishing the intellectual side of the young girl. While he was not as learned as some of the sorceresses he bedded, he shared his knowledge with Laelithra. She never understood the reasons he undertook such a challenge. Perhaps, he did not want to see any woman taken advantage of. He could only protect her for so long. To give her knowledge about how the world really worked could only provide a boon for her. With the proper wisdom, there were situations she could retreat from without using force. After all, she was not learning to slaughter humans. A witcher, or even a human training in the ways of a witcher, was different from an assassin: a common street thug.

Because she was smarter, quicker, and stronger than an average human but not as a witcher, Laelithra could not help but feel out of sorts. In the immense world with racism and rape, she did not know where she belonged. She trained to protect the innocent. It was what a witcher did. Even a girl being trained to be one did that. Yet, her protection was subjective. She would rid land of a monster for the right price. Laelithra would be a woman one day, and would one purchase the services of her? She could not ignore the danger that would come from working as one such as Geralt and Viktor. The young girl would not be as quick as they were. No, she would not fool herself. The speed of a fully mutated witcher dwarfed her own by a great size. She would die.

Another thought hit her. If she was fully mutated, she would not be held hostage for plans unrevealed. Sorrow filled her soul instantly. Her spirit would not let her lay down and accept what was happening to her. Most of the training the two witchers gave her instilled her with a sense of survival. However, there was no hope of escape for her. Alps, cemetaurs, humans, and werewolves infested the cave, calling the stone prison home in devotion to their mistress. How could she hope to flee from them? Despair seeped into her soul, coating it in its black ooze. The emotions coursing through her fluttered from vile dejection at being abandoned to blissful acceptance that the witcher would come for her.

Of course, she knew the witcher would not come. In reality, there was no reason why he would. She was not the one promised to him. The one who should rescue her, Viktor, died from the ones who held her captive. There was no hope. No shiny rainbow existed for Laelithra at the end of this dark tunnel of despondence. No, there was only Jhaer, the bruxa's cult, and the young girl's despair.

Forcing her gaze from the writhing pile of flesh, she looked into the center of the room. About a hundred different creatures stood with their shoulders pulled back, looking towards an alter. An amalgam of human men and women, dwarfish men, elvish women, necrophages, and vampires squared their shoulders. Black robes hid their livery. Yet, the young girl could see the red and gold embroidery peeking out of the collar of the frock.

The red and gold ebony uniform marked a member of the Arcani and their rank within the organization. A large speculation centered around the Arcani existence in the other world before they migrated during the Conjunction of Spheres. A person would find the meaning of the name Arcani and the stylized A in the home world of the very first leader. Even members of the Elite ranks did not know the intent of the name. The few who knew of the existence of the organization misunderstood the purpose. Although the Arcani sheltered both enchantresses and enchanters in their ranks, the organization had little to do with magic. Because of minimal knowledge on the organization, it was the reason Geralt had never heard of them.

The men and women stood together in five straight lines. The low firelight illuminated their bodies. From the stance some took, the young girl knew several were skilled in the magical arts. In her short life, she had seen a small amount of sorceresses. Everyone of them acted the same way: pretentious, egotistical, and much like a frightened little girl. Being brought up the way she was, she could not understand why they acted like that. To her, sorceresses and magicians represented a life her father or she could not have. They could advise kings and afford expensive frocks. As often with other children, Laelithra felt a shot of envy course through her. Immediately, she thought back at her brief time with Geralt. Sorceresses certainly did not have rocks thrown at them. Even as she thought, she could imagine the pebbles being launched and scattered across the stone floor with pinging sounds. Why did he continue to offer his services to those people? She asked herself.

_I am pleased to offer each of you a special rank in our organization for recognition of your accomplishments._ The words echoed through her mind, making her feel like she was drowning.Immediately, the voice caused Laelithra to focus on the creature in the center of the room. To her, it was obvious this was Jhaer: their leader and savior. She was the one each of them hailed as their True Mistress.

The Arcani's commander was often chosen through strife. Several candidates were chosen to run a serious of tests. These tests included the sacrifice of some of the human and elvish followers, the grueling physical obstacle course through the woods and mountains, and the consumption of the previous leader's heart. The person at the top of the Arcani Hierarchy needed to be ruthless and physically fit. Then, the qualities of the previous master would pass to them. Only higher vampires lead the mixed diversity which made up the Arcani ranks. Even then, females never ascended in power.

There was one exception: Ellarian Jhaer. Rumors of her ascension through the ranks of the Arcani ran from mild speculation to wild conjecture. Many believe she went to the previous Master's room under false pretenses, murdered him, and took the position by force. More believe she was the one always behind the Arcani. Jhaer always pulled the strings of the formal leader. Everyone believed she was the one true commander, prophesying a glorious new age. She would lead them. They would follow her without hesitation.

Jhaer stood with her shoulders squared before a stone altar. An ivory, strapless gown clung to her tiny curves. Ashen hair swept forward, covering her clear eyes. Her tiny feet hid in the smoky mist covering the floor. She stared at the collection of humanoids before her. A mixture of admiration and revulsion slept inside of her unblinking gaze. The young girl knew those two emotions could not possibly coexist in a being's body. Yet, here it was in this creature's. Immediately, the bruxa's gaze sought someone in the mass of faces. _Step forward, Brother __Veloeglaeddy._

None of Her followers could resist her commands. They ate at the will power of her victims. This was more vindictive than what any other monster could do. A man in the service of Jhaer had dual occupations. One, they were chosen as her lover. Being the favorite mate of the bruxa was a death sentence. She was not a gentle woman. Most of her tastes bordered on the obscene. Two, they were her thugs. They would do her bidding, terminating any who poised a threat to the vampire or her glorious new age. And, they would be rewarded handsomely for it.

A man stepped forward as the others behind him started to chant. The sound surrounding him, reverberating off of the cavern's immense stone walls. With each pitch in tone, he took a step forward. His steps were quick and precise, hiding his powerful feline-like reflexes. When the rhythmic song crested, the boy fell to his knees on the ground before the altar. He extended his arms, lowering his palms to the rocky ground. Suddenly, a breeze of very cold air blew through the chamber. Blond hair fluttered in the breeze as the boy's hood was ripped from his head.

Immediately, Laelithra recognized the boy as the one who abducted her from Geralt's campsite. She remembered the time spent when the assassin raced ahead of the white-haired witcher. He was sadistic and cruel. Because of him and other men, the very young girl would never enjoy the taste of childhood again. Laelithra was force to grow up before her time.

Jhaer picked up a small bone. It was about three inches in length, tapering closer to its tip, where the narrow bone was stained the color of rust. Red swirled with white, creating an ominous hue. _Disrobe. _She instructed the boy in a voice that made Laelithra feel like she was drowning in a sea of chaos.

As if the bruxa had cracked a whip at his flank, the assassin sat up and knelt before her. He moved his hands to the ruby clasp situated in the center of the collar of the robe. Swiftly, he unlatched the jewel. The frock fluttered to the floor, surrounding the naked boy's buttocks and knees. His dark eyes never left the gory ground.

Laelithra's cheeks reddened at the sight of the naked boy. She had knowledge of the boy's body when he had hurt her for not eating. As long as she could remember, Laelithra would remember the sight of his body. Yet, there was something different as she gazed at him in his unabashed, detached form. Years of intense training had left his physique lean and agile. It was one of the reasons he was able to follow Geralt without the witcher noticing him.

The young girl had seen men naked before. There was a few times she had walked in on Viktor with a female companion. While she did not understand the act that the two were participating in, the sight of the twisted flesh was not lost on her. In the pit of her stomach, she felt nauseous. She knew those types of actions should not have been privy to the young girl at such a tender age.

Then, there were the few times that she had come upon the white-haired witcher. In the middle of the night, Geralt would retrieve his sword from the fire and travel away from this campsite. He did not venture to far, and the camp was always in his vision. One night, she had a terrifying nightmare. Since she had come to depend on the witcher, Laelithra went to find him. He was lost in his own world, twirling his blade with lethal precision. The situation was confusing for her, and she wondered why Geralt practiced without his clothes on.

Low, melodic chanting erupted from the tiny creature, bringing Laelithra's attention back to the present.. The husky song circled around the cave, merging with the chants of her followers_._

Slowly, the bruxa moved from the altar towards the man who knelt before her. Like a demon emerging from a nightmare, the vampire glided across the floor. Although the mists covered her tiny feet, Laelithra knew she floated. The creature's graceful movements were the same as the alp Geralt had encountered months ago. They were the same after all. Her lyrical voice and evened out as their chanting reached a crescendo.

Laelithra thought he would flinch, but the man did no such thing. She knew if it was her that the maleficent creature was approaching, she would have fled. The bruxa was an image from her worst nightmares as she was growing up. Because of how she was raised, the little girl feared nothing. Watching her father and Geralt sever body parts from certain monsters, unnatural creatures did not phase her.

However, there was something about this particular creature that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on edge. While most vampires her father and the White Haired witcher had slain were single-minded beasts, this one's eyes shone with intelligence. The vampire's pale lips curled up in a smile, exposing her small fangs. She bent down near the adolescent child, her gown flowing around her small frame.

Laelithra cringed as the creature took the boy's arm. Strands of the other woman's hair fell forward into her face. Immediately, Jhaer dipped the tip of the sharp bone into the blood colored liquid. _You, and you alone, brought the one we sought for so long for._

The blond boy did not raise his eyes to the fair haired vampire. With the trust that only brainwashing could bring forth, he left his arm in her hand. Even when the needle punctured through his skin and left the crimson ink visible, the young man did not flinch.

Next, the leader of the Arcani dipped the bloodstained needle into a puddle of jet black liquid. Blood, his blood, mixed with the dark fluid, leaving a bright red swirl within the murky mass. _You plucked her from the Wolf's paws and brought forth the girl. _

He still did not look up at his Mistress as she pressed the bone needle into his arm once more. A black eye stood in the center of the loop of the symbolized _A_. The tail of the eye extended, curling into the end of the letter. In the brazier's light, the crimson mixing with the black of the tattoo seemed to make the eye come to life.

_Because of you, the prophesy will come into fruition. You, my pet, deserve this more so than any before you. Rise._

As if awakened from a dream, the boy pushed off of the floor with his hands. He stood, facing the creature. Blood dripped down from the tattoo, making it appear as if the eye was crying ruby tears. It twirled down his bicep in rivulets, circling around his elbow, spiraling down his forearm, and dripped off the edges of his fingertips. With his palms flat against his naked thighs, he stared calmly at Jhaer.

A hush fell over the gathered followers. Anticipation shone in both the unusual creatures', nonhumans', and humans' eyes. Each hungered for what was to come. The carnage brought on by centuries of organized society and a desperate need to be part of something bigger than a single individual crackled like electricity through the room. Members of the Arcani, such as those assembled before their great leader, lost their individuality. They became cogs in a single, living machine. Under the leadership of Jhaer, the Arcani served one purpose. They were to bring forth her vision of the future at all costs.

The assassin continued to stand before his mistress. His eyes lost focus as he stared at the floor. Without a direct command from his leader, it appeared he was no more than a puppet. In fact, the longer one was in the direct command of the vampire's influence the harder it was to leave the Arcani. Whatever she willed, they would make come to pass. She was their collective thought.

Arcani knew death, and it was what its members craved. Their glorious new world would cater to the strong, bringing the weak a savage end. Jhaer specialized in the demise of several people. It was what her kind did. Most vampires only knew killing and maiming. _You will help usher in the new age. _Walking back to the alter, she retrieved a large knife.

Each of her followers tilted their heads back and their hands to the ceiling. A quiet mummer erupted from the group, chanting, "All hail, Jhaer."

Elegantly, she walked back to the assassin. Her hips swayed slightly with each floating step she took. She gestured towards the bound captain of her genetically modified assassin squad. Her eyes never left the boy. Bending down, she took the assassin's large, agile hands, folded them around the hilt of the serrated knife, and curled his fingertips around them. _He has failed your wondrous mistress. You have not. Prove your added worth to me by taking his place, taking his strength, and learning from his failures._

With her command, the assassin snapped to attention. He turned to face Laelithra. At once, she noticed how his eyes sparkled with a hidden malice aimed at her. His lips turned upward, forming into an aggressive smirk.

Two burly men dragged the bound man into a standing position and made him walk forward. His eyes were wide with terror. The spell of Jhaer left the former captain. He did not need to be submissive anymore. Fear was a more serving purpose for the man. It showed the others the price of failure. Suddenly, immediately, he started to strain against his tormentors. Life sprang to his body as he kicked his legs out, flailed his arms, and snapped his head wildly to the left and right.

The young assassin stalked toward him with confidence oozing from his every step. He was slow in his approach, building the apprehension of the crowd to its peak. They longed for this, and the boy knew this moment was pivotal in the other lesser assassins' obedience. With a harsh grunt, he thrust the knife forward vertically into the other man's abdomen.

Immediately, the former squad leader started to scream as blood ran down his stomach and dripped onto the floor. Once more, he strained against his captors. This time, it was not because of fear. His eyes widened with agony. Gnashing his teeth together, his howls filled the air in the cavern.

As the assassin removed the knife, he thrust his hand into the cavity left behind, wrenched upward into the slippery flesh, and clutched at the heart of his victim. His smirk widened as he heard the screams of the man. Blood coated his arm, splashing on his chest and face.

Laelithra was unable to look away from the grisly sight and the sadistic glint in the man's eyes. She knew he enjoyed what he was doing just as much as witchers enjoyed women and coin. Shivering deeply, she tried to huddle into her bloodstained, dirty frock. The clothing provided little warmth from the cold and her revulsion.

Immediately, the assassin pulled the heart from the living man's cavity. He held it up to the salivating mass. With dull thumps, the heart bled into his hand, the blood running off the side of his palms, dropping in large spots on the floor. The man knew how to work the crowd and make them play into his hands. For a teenager, he was a crafty and observant boy. Slowly, he the beating heart to his lips. Blood smeared on his mouth and cheeks as the organ blocked his lower face from view. His teeth sank deeply into the flesh of the organ, liquid squirting from it.

The wounded man shook violently. His life bled out of him. As his eyes rolled into the back of his head, the men released his body. He sank to the floor. Death was the reward for his failure, and the example for the cluster of followers.

Laelithra turned away with a ghastly look on her face. She shivered, bent over, and vomited. Tears shimmered beneath her eyelids The young girl wondered how anyone could be so cruel.

The vampire waved her slim, elegant hand towards the young child.Laelithra shivered as she could feel the creature's eyes upon her. Jhaer's bright red lips curved up into a predatory smile._ She will become your charge. Guard her well. He will come for her because he is unlike others of his kind. The White Wolf cares. Because he is fond of the girl, he will stand in the way of the future. Yet, Brother Veloeglaeddy, you will stand in his way. My brother, you will challenge everything he thinks he knows. You, my dearest, will destroy him. This, I have seen._

Geralt looked up the sparse wooded path, leading to a yawning cave. The breeze chilled him, rustling the cloth of his jerkin and biting his scarred skin. The witcher's ivory ponytail whipped around his head, slapping his right cheek repetitively. His scalp stung where the unrelenting wind pulled at his hair.

For the past day, he did not leave his position as he gathered information about the inhabitants of the cave. A large dark lump of flesh blocked the entrance of the cave, blocking his vision slightly. At night, various lesser and higher vampires collected behind the dark mass. A group of knights would have little resistance storming the cavern and rescuing the girl. Yet, the witcher knew he was better than such a group. Many years of working as a witcher had given him the knowledge he used to concoct a plan in his mind.

The plan was simple. He would rush the cavern, slaying any who stood in the way to his path to the girl. They were monsters he had killed for money before. He could anticipate their movements, match their speed, and outmaneuver their attacks. It took years of practice, training, and working to be able to predict and formulate such evasive motions.

His breath released in a fine mist from his mouth. It was summer, but it was cold in the mountains. There were some places the snow had yet to melt. He could smell the crispness in the air as it situated deeply into his lungs. It reminded him of when the man took the young girl. The day was cold, and she wished to train despite his better judgment. Laelithra developed an illness.

They had taken what was his. Geralt's eyes narrowed at the thought as if the orbs were embers encircled by a sea of molten gold. His thin lips scowled. When had the child become his? The witcher did not know. He suspected it was in the Temple of Melitele when she told him the fate of her father or it was the first time she had experienced a nightmare with him. As it stood, he did not know when the little girl had changed his outlook on her, but she did.

His frown deepened. The unknown feeling was new and confusion to the white haired witcher. For a brief moment, he wondered what to do about it. Geralt felt like an outsider with the emotions he was experiencing.

Regardless of his emotions or when he started to care about the little girl, he made an oath to her. The witcher had nothing to swear on or code to abide by. A witcher created a code when it was convenient. After all, a person would hire him easier if the person thought he lived by some code. Yet, he swore to Laelithra. Geralt would protect her from the Arcani. He would not go back on his word. It would make him no better than the monsters he slain for money.

He clenched his teeth together, tensing his jaw. His pulse leaped in his throat. As he continued to look up the path and watched the activities outside of the cavern, his nostrils flared. No one took from the witcher and expected him to give up. It was not in his blood to let things go. Yet, the Arcani did not wish for him to pretend like Laelithra did not exist. They counted on his arrival to join them. Geralt would never. The witcher was here for the little girl, and he was not going to forsake her. They would see. Reaching up, he felt the leather bindings on his silver sword. No, he would _make _them see.

Immediately, he released the grip of the silver sword. There would come a time when he would draw it. He was sure a nest of vampires had taken the girl. Geralt did not know what else lurked in that cave. Yet, his training and experience told him that at least bruxa and lesser minions made the cave their home. Rarely did humans and non-humans co-exist with vampires. There were special circumstances. He knew this, but he was sure that the Arcani was not one of those.

Geralt unlatched the top elixir from the thick, leather strap crossing his left shoulder. He the bottle and gazed at the liquid inside. The emerald fluid sloshed inside of the glass container, coating the sides with the thick substance. Immediately, he removed the cork from the opening. A pungent smell mixed with mint, carrying sharply in the wind. Bringing the bottle to his lips, he drank deeply.

Instantly, he felt his body react to the potion. His insides burned, feeling like they were being consumed. Unable to control his body's reflex, he shut his eyes tightly and displayed the deep-set wrinkles around the corners. Geralt slammed his back against the trunk of a tree behind him as his body spasmed involuntary. He would have tried to quiet his reaction, but he was in no condition to.

As the convulsions left his body, the witcher flinched. His surroundings began to blur together, spinning in a never-ending cycle. Pain arced across his scalp as if it was lightning, pulsing with each slow blink of his eyes. Tightening his teeth together, he bit back the guttural growl trying to escape past his lips. Several pinpoints of light flashed before his eyes as he braced himself for the pain that turned his blood to vile poison being pumped through every vein in his body, searing him with agony from within.

He opened his eyes, and his surroundings became a misty blob of shapes and figures. As the seconds passed, the images became crisper. Geralt could see the veins on the leaves of the trees, the wisps of snow blowing from the top of the entrance of the cave, and the dark lump of the horse laying before the cavern.

Listening quietly, he could make out the crickets chirping quietly beside him. They serenaded the witcher as he formulated a plan in his mind. As he stood there, the sounds around him increased. Inside the cave, he could make out faint chatter. He wished to leave the land with the girl with him.

Laelithra felt the chill deep within her. She tried to look away as beast, man, and non-human, alike, were paraded before their mistress. All were judged the same way. Some were promoted, ate the heart of their old squad leader, and given special privileges. More often, they were judged harshly. The young girl found that the price for failure was high in the organization. They were gutted, drained of their blood, and served to their mistress as if they were a platter of food.

Presently, the young child could not look away. The one standing before his mistress was as important to her as if Viktor, himself, was standing before her.

He did not bend his will to her. Instead, the tiny boy stood upright with his platinum hair hugging his cheeks. His emerald eyes did not leave Jhaer's. Once, Hare had wetted himself when the elder witcher took them from their dying family. Presently, he stood proudly before Jhaer.

A shiver traveled up the young girl's spine. She wondered what they must have done to her brother. He showed no signs of the timidness of his namesake.

_Once, they called you Hare. A fitting name for one such as you. When they brought you here, you wet your pants nightly. Now, you wish to be one of the faithful, one of my servants. Your mistress is wise and benevolent. She grants whatever her followers wish of her. If you wish that, Leviticus, I shall grant it._

Laelithra remembered the assassin told her that the Arcani made their followers give up their birth names. It was suppose to give the organization a feeling like they were a cohesive unit. A member that thinks as the same as every one else could not make trouble later. Even a child as young as Laelithra understood the implications of a free name.

The vampire must have had plans for her brother. They must have spanned more than her loyal followers could give her. Laelithra continued to stare at the scene, trying to understand what could be so important about Hare.

Immediately, Jhaer sauntered back behind her altar. The top of it was scattered with grey intestines, snaking over the edge and dripping blood onto the floor. A putrid smell erupted from the mass of organs, gagging the young girl. For as long as she could remember, she would never forget that intense, overpowering odor. It represented death and the price of failure to her.

Leviticus stood with his hands clenched against his thighs. There was no haze covering his green eyes as was the other followers of the Arcani. The cloak gathered around his naked flesh, covering his body from the perverted view of the other members. Unlike the others, he was aware of his surroundings. A cold, penetrating smile overtook his scarred face.

_No, my child, you are no longer Hare. When you had taken the Quickening, you had ceased to be that frightened creature. _ Jhaer whispered into all of their minds. She picked up a long, serrated knife. The tip tapered into a thin point. Blood collected in the indented fuller, flesh dotted the blade, and gore dripped off the edge.

As the unnatural creature rounded the corner of the stone, the mists seemed to swell. The crowd started to chant once again, bolstering and blending their voices together. As before, they hungered for the release. It was something only their mistress could give them. In fact, the entire cult was a double edge sword. On one side, death swirled. It was the price for failure of humanity. Even Laelithra had seen death in her young life.

Yet, it was not the only thing the cult represented. Rebirth. They would lead humanity in a new age without racism. It would be a better world, begot of the need for human authority figures, nations, and witchers. Their glorious leader would rush in the new age with the help of the young girl. As Laelithra studied her brother's expression, she was under the illusion she was the only one they needed. No, Hare was needed too.

_You wish for this, young one?_

Leviticus's narrowed his eyebrows. For a brief moment, Laelithra thought he would refused the other woman. Perhaps, she saw some semblance of the boy he was when they lived with their mother and abusive father. However, it would be a fool's hope. His metallic voice rang across the cavern. It was how she knew her brother was not the boy she knew anymore. For a brief moment, she was reminded of both Geralt and her father's dull, monotone speeches. "Laelithra mine," he chirped. Even as little as he was, his perversion was there. It was something that she would think was bred into him. Hare did not fear the bruxa and was making demands. He was slightly younger than she was, and he had already chosen who he wished to be with. Her.

A eerie chuckle came from the vampire. _Brother Veloeglaeddy will watch over her, be her blade, and protect her. Yet, it will be as you wish. She shall be yours. This I promise you. Leviticus. You will become the owner of my greatest weapon. Kneel and receive what is yours._

Laelithra watched her brother kneel, bending one leg to the ground. As with the others, the vampire did not have to command him. He did not lower his head. Instead, the boy who was formally called Hare stared into the vampire's eyes. Reaching up, he drew back the hood of his cloak. It fell against his shoulders. A large, thick scar raised from the top of his right shoulder, circled around his neck, and disappeared into the garment. Did they whip him, or did they do more than that?

As the chanting reached the peak once more, Jhaer held up her left hand. Swiftly, she brought the knife across, cut deep within the center of her hand, and winced at the moment. Thick, black blood spilled from the wound, coating her lower palm bright red. The vampire knelt beside the small boy. Spots of gore dripped onto the floor between them._ Drink deeply, and all you wish for shall be yours._

The act of drinking a vampire's blood did not turn anyone into a vampire. Through her travels with Geralt and Viktor, Laelithra understood this. Yet, Jhaer required them to drink her blood. The young girl had to wonder why. It could not be for control. The bruxa had other ways to control them. Wondering quietly, she thought she figured it out. Drinking her blood was symbolic. Her followers were apart of her. If they ingested her blood, they would become her children.

However, those thoughts were brief and would come later if she remembered. All of her adrenaline told her to save her brother. While he bore no resemblance to the Hare she lived with, the boy was still her brother. Viktor had breed family allegiance into the young girl. She would not let Leviticus be controlled like so many others in the cult. He was her family.

Despite the despair and weakness clinging to her, she stood on her feet. At first, she started to wobble. Her vision blurred together, mixing in a symphony of brilliant flashes of light. Suddenly, her stomach turned in on itself. Heaving, she watched helplessly as her brother took the vampire's hand to his lips.

Rage enveloped Laelithra, cutting deeply within her. She would never know the rage she felt at that moment. Fueling her, she on the balls of her tiny feet. Laelithra did not regret what she did. It was a stake she would pay, but it was right. She could feel it in her heart. Even though this boy did not resemble Hare anymore, he was family.

In spite of the hands grabbing at her, crossing the distance between her and the vampire and her brother was quite easy. She practiced what Geralt and her father had taught her. Laelithra found it easy to predict the motions of the ones who tried to grab her. Spinning side ways, she dodged a tall elf. Before her momentum decreased, she reversed her spin and evaded a human. For a brief moment, she wondered if Geralt or Viktor would have been proud.

Then, a tiny fist appeared in her view. She felt the impact to her temple as she crumbled to the floor. Looking up, she saw the blood drip from his mouth as it plopped on her hand. Was it her blood or the liquid staining her brother's lips? Laelithra did not know.

…...

Slowly, she blinked as her eyes refocused. Once more, she lay on her side next to the stone throne. A long rope bound her hands, twisting into the flesh of her wrists. Tiny droplets of blood wet the twine and caused it to bit into her skin. Her wrists stung. Laelithra tried to move to alleviate the feeling, but the motion caused the pain to sear inside of her worse. She sat up, ignoring the agony coursing through her tiny frame. Pain suffocated her thoughts.

Yet, she could hear the creature's melodic singing next to her. The bruxa twirled on the right side of the throne as her voice to the high ceiling of the cavern. Blood dripped down the creature, coating her breasts. The sound echoed in the immense room. With her hands outstretched, she spun on her tiny feet. As she twirled, pieces of her fabric ripped Laelithra could not understand the words coming from Jhaer's mouth.

As the words entered into Laelithra's mind, she could not push the fear that overcame her deep inside of her. It spread throughout her like an ebony growth, overshadowing her thoughts. The only thing that the young child could think of was the mind numbing terror spreading through her body.

Laelithra's breath came out quickly. The thunder outside roared, shaking the dirt off of the brown stalagmites, coating the floor around them. Dirty water dripped in rhythmic plops off of the immense stalactites hanging from the ceiling. Darkness consumed the cave because the braziers had long went out long ago.

Raising her hand to the side of her forehead, wetness coated the tips. Laelithra placed her fingertips close to her face and noticed the thick, red substance. She moved her fingers together, smearing the liquid. At once, she knew what it was. Blood. The sticky wetness oozed down the left side of her face, slid down her neck, and disappeared into her burlap collar. As the wound continued to bleed, she found herself fighting to stay conscious.

Briefly, she wondered how they made Hare aggressive. The young girl could not deny that the young boy had changed. She was living with Viktor. While it might not have been the life of luxury, her father cared for her. During her brief travels with the white-haired witcher, she had observed a similar behavior in him. Geralt left her wanting for naught as long as it was not extravagant. He provided clothes for her body, food for her belly, and shelter from the elements. In a way, he had became her adopted father. Even if the witcher refused to acknowledge it, he was.

Once more, she wondered how they had changed Hare. She remembered the deformities lining the planes on his face and the thick scar circling around his neck and back. Hatred showed in his eyes, directing the fury at her. Even the unusual monsters that the witchers killed did not hold the contempt her brother did. Laelithra missed how close her brother and she was. Of course, she knew he was hurting. His confusion seeped into her soul, blackening it. Every emotion, every pain, and every sensation she could feel as if she had experienced it herself. He was her twin.

Closing her eyes tightly, she hung her head low. Exhaustion seeped into her bones, making her question the severity of things. If she would rest, the feelings would leave her. Laelithra knew the truth deep down. Things were not as terrible as she made it out to be. Monsters such as the bruxa and her minions only existed in her dreams.

No, the situation was not happening. Laelithra knew she was home in her mother's cottage with Hare sleeping peacefully beside her. Her father would return any moment with liquor on his breath. He would beat her. Yet, it was a more pleasing circumstance than what was before her. It would mean that Geralt, Viktor, and these bruxa were real.

Deep within her mind, she knew they had to be real. Geralt was too vivid to be a figment of the young girl's imagination. He was too blatant, too crass, and too set in his ways to be anything but alive.

Perhaps if she would rest, things would look much better. If she would sleep, the throbbing of her head would cease. Even with her eyes close, the pain abated. Yes, she needed only to rest. The bleeding would stop, the hideous melody would leave her, and the dust from the stalagmites would not catch in her lungs.

In one of the many paths of the cave, they heard a sound of rushing footsteps. It was followed by a deep, guttural growl, lifting in intensity as fury set in the owner. The feral snarl overlapped another feminine roar.

Her eyes snapped opened, widening as the endless singing ceased. Briefly, she wondered if the creature left because she willed it or if the aggressive sounds in the cave had caused the bruxa to flee. As her gaze lifted, she knew it was not true. Staring into her eyes was the creature. The bruxa's face was an inch from the young girl's.

_Do I frighten you, Child of Viktor? _Instantly, the young girl felt a cold, manicured finger travel on her cheek. The digit collected blood, dragging up her face slowly. A corrupt smile graced the creature's features.

Laelithra did not answer the creature. She tried to hide her involuntary shudder of disgust. Her breath hitched in her chest, sticking in her throat. If she wanted to speak, she could not. Fear coated her insides once more. Death became the only thing the young child could think of. No, she could not respond to the creature. The only thing she was capable of doing was shaking.

Another shriek drifted towards the room. Pain mixed with rage, slithering around the immense cavern. The leaping snarl hit a crescendo. Laelithra was surprised at the rage she felt within the voice. Yet, there was something that the young child could relate with. Fear saturated the owner. Fear of what, she wondered to herself. Next, a wet screech sounded and filled the room. Suddenly, the noise jerked as if someone pulled on a leash. Then, there was silence.

The young girl shrunk away from the touch on her cheek. It felt cold and foreboding. The terror again surfaced in her, making her shiver. Looking around, her pupils were enlarged. Despite how much she tried to see her captor, the blackness refused her. Silently, she wept and longed for any light. With light, there would be hope. With fire, she would not be tired.

Immediately, the bruxa stood moving away from the tiny girl. Elegantly, she her fingertips to her mouth. She touched the tip of her tongue to the blood coating her fingers. Jhaer moaned in pleasure, and the sound echoed around the cavern. It would not have been wise for her to drink the blood of the young girl. The fluid would go straight to her head much like a drunk.

As the sucking sound came, Laelithra tried to block it out. She hung her head as the exhaustion set in once more. Her bones felt heavy like her skin and muscles were hanging off of them. Still, the sounds of wet licking overtook the young girl. Laelithra wondered how much longer she could stay awake. Sleep was becoming a necessary for her.

_I feel your weakness, child. You wish to sleep. Sleep._

Once more, she could not speak. Jhaer gave such sound advice. She could not deny her body craved such a respite such as sleep. Her head throbbed, pounding dully. Pain ricocheted across her scalp, and she gasped. As if to compete with the agony, her wrists flamed to remind her of their condition. The rope continued to eat into her flesh, coating itself with her blood. Because she was forced to hunch over, her back flamed in protest. It was something that she could do nothing about. Rest would alliterate those aches and pain. Her eyelids felt heavy with tiredness.

Again, the moaning from the bruxa filled the room. She derived pleasure from such a simple act. If she was with Geralt longer, he would have told Laelithra the exact specifics of the vampire. Perhaps, she would have been better prepared and less frightened. Again, she shuddered. Her chin bounced against her chest.

Despite the fear and her training, her eyes refused to stay open. Her body craved for rest. Even though she knew that it was foolish to do, she could not ignore the feeling. Something had to give, or the young child would snap. It was not because of lack of rest. For a brief moment, she wondered if it was because the creature had suggested it. Could a simple suggestion imprint into her thoughts like that and affect her body?

Laelithra's thoughts centered on the male witcher. He was not the type to come and rescue people. Yet, he proposed a laconic oath to her. She knew he would not forsake her to those who held her captive. Geralt was many things, but he had never went back on his word to her. The young girl wondered what was special between the witcher and herself. Why did he feel like kin? Was it because of her father? Was that the reason the white-haired witcher did not seem like a monster as most children viewed him?

Another roar was heard outside, originating from somewhere in the cavern. Thunder mixed with it, overwhelming the premature sound. As with the other roars, it sounded like someone was cut off too early. A wet squish could be heard followed by a harsh hiss. Laelithra could recognize the dying sounds of an animal. The drowner, her first monster, had made the same sound as her father twisted the silver blade in it. Instinctively, she knew a blade loped off a creature's head. Hope bounded in Laelithra. The witcher had come.

The joy was followed quickly by distress. Geralt had come, keeping his word. For what end? They wished to lure him here. Laelithra did not understand the advantages of having the male witcher on their side would bring Arcani. His legend reached the ears of the bruxa. While many of her kind feared him, Laelithra could see some sort of respect gleaming in the vampire's eyes.

_He is here. I can feel it, child. Our new future is beginning to take shape. Geralt of Rivia will join us, or he will die._

Although her eyes forced themselves close, Laelithra opened them. Jhaer wished for Geralt of Rivia to join her? Why? Surely, her assassins were better than one lone witcher? Moving, she hissed as pain shot up her arm. Everything started to throb, reaching a crescendo in her body. It was as if the agony was a brilliant symphony. Her back, head, and wrists sang together, merging in harmony.

Laelithra worshiped Geralt. Deep within the depths of her mind, she knew he would not have left her to rot amidst vampires. Once again, she knew he never broke his promises to her. Even when Viktor was alive, he was not reliable. No, not like the white haired witcher. She smiled a vicious, cold smile at Jhaer. The look could have been reminiscent of any glares from the White Wolf himself. Surely, she spent enough time with him to adopt a few characteristics from him.

Immediately, Laelithra spit on the floor between herself and the bruxa. Well, she thought it was between the two. The darkness refused to let her see the exact position of the vampire. The spittle was no more than a tiny spot, filling with more blood than saliva. She was thirsty and starving. Yet, she barely ate or drunk. "He would never join you," she snarled, hoarsely.

She knew she could not sleep. Rest was what the creature wished for her to do. The young Laelithra understood it would be easier to pressure Geralt with her not awake. Laelithra could not object to any of their findings. Although her body was on the verge of collapsing, she fought it. Sleeping was dangerous, and she would not do it. The witcher's life hung in balance, and she was the only one who could warn him. Laelithra would not allow him to be used or to die. He had protected her on the road. Presently, she could return the favor.

Because the creature was agile, Laelithra did not hear her move closer. She could not feel the malevolent air following the bruxa. Bending down, Jhaer gripped the chin of the small girl. The vampire gazed deeply into her eyes, gauging Laelithra's soul with lifeless eyes. _Then, he will die, Child of Viktor. He is in my way, and he will be dealt with. Make no mistake, child, he __**will**__ die._

Laeltihra felt the wind rush towards her face. It hit the side of her cheek before spreading out to her nose. A second later, pain erupted where the wound her brother caused oozed blood, splattering the liquid on the floor and across her face. Her eyes rolled up into the back of her head. She fought for control because the witcher's life depended on her.

_Brother Veloeglaeddy, we must prepare._

Laelithra continued to fight for consciousness. Geralt had come to rescue her, saving her from the destiny that seemed to mix the two together. She could not live with herself if he were to die. Once more, she felt the jolt of agony explode from the wound. Light flashed before her eyes in rhythmic timing with the spasms. Suddenly, she went limp in the bruxa's embrace.

…...


	8. Chapter Nine

With a grunt, he pulled the thin, silver blade from the chest of the grey, wrinkled skin creature. The dark blood squirted vertically, splashing onto his face. Gore clung to the edge of the sword, running in slow drips onto the dirt floor. It mixed with the floor, twisting in the mud. He shook the blade, expelling more from the fuller of the weapon.

He could hear the thunder crashing outside. Rain pinged the ground, echoing through the immense cavern. The scurry of cockroaches came to him next as their bellies dragged along the dirty, bloody ground. Hideous laughter pulled at the tiny hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.

Geralt growled in frustration as a cold wind blew over his body. It chilled his body, causing tiny goosebumps to appear on his upper arms. While his breath tried to smother him, he inhaled deeply. The witcher counted to himself, holding his breath. 

His gaze raced along the fallen creature. The short membranous wing attached to its short stubby tail and raced up to the tip of its large, dark middle finger. Small, jagged cuts caused several holes in the web-like tissue. A red bulbous spongy material appeared behind its enormous hard cranium. Two large fangs glinted crimson in the sparse moonlight filtering through the cracks in the ceiling. Blood oozed from its mouth, running down its chin and plopping on the ground. More liquid expelled from the immense wound on its chest and flowed in a bright red river down its sides. Finally, Geralt noticed the stylized _A_ branded into the flesh of the monster's bicep.

The witcher opened the satchel that hung off of one of the leather straps crossing his chest. It rested against his left rib. His nimble fingers brushed passed filled vials, folded skins, and talons. He knew where everything in his side pack was positioned just by touching the various bottles. Everything was placed in a specific order. Running his hand over an empty glass vessel, he pulled it forth. Next, he moved a few inches to the right. Immediately, the hilt of his skinning knife fit securely in his strong grip. He withdrew it, and the moonlight gleamed off the sharp blade.

With the toe of his leather boot, he nudged the creature's body. The witcher had learned not to be careless after his encounter with the princess of Temeria. He almost died for his foolishness. Geralt bore the thick scars to remind him of the incident. Even if the monster appeared to be dead or cured from a curse, the chances were ripe for it not to be fully cured or slain. A small chance of it being alive was a chance that the White Wolf did not like. Despite all his attempts of to rouse the vampire, it lay still with its glassy eyes staring into oblivion.

Immediately, he clutched the arm of the deceased vampire. Its immense wing stretched out. The creature reeked. To humans and most non humans, the smell would be enough to make their stomach turn on itself. It was a warning signal for those races. Most intelligent species recognized those signs and stood clear of crypts and abandon buildings where these particular creatures nested.

Yet, Geralt was not a normal human or nonhuman. While he did have those fears and other signs of terror, he ignored them for the most part. Even when his body submitted to some of these baser instincts, he could not. He would acknowledge the fear, push it inside of him, and continue on his way. He was a witcher. By default, his profession meant dealing with these types of monsters. The White Wolf did not know the existence of any witchers who did not have the stomach for their forced career.

Slowly, the knife sunk deep within the fleshy wing of the monster. It danced close to the beginning of the wing, separating the web-like tissue from the garkain. While there was a sense of urgency in Geralt to find Laelithra, he would not miss an opportunity for some gold pieces or an ingredient for his witcher's elixirs that he was dangerously close to running out of. He could not deny that his endless pursuit of the female child carried a heavy weight on his herbal stock.

As he grasped the wing and pulled gently, it slid easily from the vampire's thin, whip-like finger bones. Because the garkain preferred to wait on rooftops or rafters of builds and swoop down to stun their prey, their stretchy skin bore a stark resemblance to a bat's. Of course, there was other likenesses. Its high forehead tapered into a short, flat nose. Two sharp, long fangs glistened out of its dark mouth. The teeth of the vampires were stronger than the flying rodents', being able to rip the flesh of the throat.

Gently, he folded the winged membrane and placed it in his satchel. In some corners of the world, the leather from a vampire could be made into boots. If boiled and extracted in the appropriate manner, it could release a valuable alchemy property used in witchers' medicines, concoctions, and other medicines. Briefly, he wondered how much orens or another kingdom's equivalent he could make off of the creature's he slew in the hive of Arcani.

Reaching into the creature's mouth and because he was in a hurry, one of its fangs pricked the black glove of the witcher. Once more, he was careless, he thought with a sigh of disgust. Yet, fortunately, it did not break through the thick material. The witcher was sparred the latent _poison_ lurking in the creature's mouth Instead, a distinct sizzling sound echoed around the pathway as his silver studs met flesh. If the monster was alive, it would scream with pain. Of course, it was hypothetical. If the vampire was alive, Geralt would not have reached inside of its mouth because the garkain could have crushed his hand with its bite force. The witcher chuckled, grimly. It was more of a quick exhale through his nostrils than a real laugh.

He wrapped his hand around the thick, gristle tongue. Blood, gore, and saliva clung to the leather of his glove. It glistened, making the ebony sheen. He pulled the organ out of the mouth. A stream of dark liquid shot from the vampire's mouth and hit the wall. The thick, grey muscle dripped with stringy saliva. It stretched to a thin line before snapping off. Using his other hand, Geralt picked up the empty vial and placed it underneath the fleshy tongue. Slithering down the side, the liquid dripped into the glass vessel.

As the sticky fluid filled the container, Geralt could not help but feel a sense of urgency overtake his body. He was not here to collect more ingredients for his elixirs. The longer he took in extracting the specific body parts he thought he needed the chance for the girl to be lost .

In spite of this urgency, he could not shake the need to collect the materials. After Geralt removed another empty vial from his pack and pulled the cork from the opening, he tilted the creature's head back and exposed the rough, leather-like neck.

The knife slid easily into the creature, creating a rather large hole. Blood rushed out from the wound, seeping between the wrinkles on back of the dead creature's neck. Blood from the vampire and Geralt's butchering made the floor slippery. As the weapon pierced deeper, a clear liquid replaced the blood. It flowed, oozing down the sides of the neck and circling around to the back.

Geralt frowned. This was precious fluid, and there was only so much of it. Like any other witcher who would exist, he knew how important this liquid was. The witcher swore to himself, quietly as he brought up the empty vial. In Laelithra's pressing need, he had grew careless once more. Why was this one child so important to him? His lips pressed downwards in a scowl. Of course, he did not understand the emotions running through him. What was important about this particular girl? Why did he feel a sense of kinship to her?

As his tilted the head up, the clear fluid exuded from the wound. It dripped into the opening of the vial. Some of it landed on the outside of the lip of the container. The fluid slid down the outside of the glass and over his fingers. He did not pay attention to it. Because of his profession, he had been covered in worse than lymph. Every fluid could be cleansed by a simple trip to a bath house.

Immediately, he remembered the first time he had taught her to dissect and retrieve the parts needed. Geralt did not know why he began her training and teaching her that specific skill. He had no plans of taking her to Kaer Morhen or mutating her. She could not ingest the elixirs he could, or she could die. Pursing his lips together, he wondered why he did it. What was it about this one girl? The only thing the witcher knew was what ensued that simple lesson: his inability to refuse the girl of whatever was her desire.

_The moon sparkled off of the rippling water. Ebony blood seeped from the bank and spread into the liquid, mixing as if a lamp had spilled oil in the river. Black swirled slowly in the clear water before sinking into the depths._

_He squatted next to a corpse. The smell of decay drifted up, washing over him. Geralt did not gag or cough. Numerous monsters lay slain from his hand, and he was used to the reek that certain unnatural creatures gave off. Casting a side glance briefly at his companion, he wondered when the scene would become to much for her and make her vomit._

_To his surprise, the young girl mimicked his own movements. Laelithra crouched next to him. Her small leather pants brushed his own. She pulled back her platinum hair, letting the strands run through her fingertips. It fell forward, brushing the cheeks of the child._

_It perplexed Geralt. The child did not act squeamish in the slightest. . Normal children would have thrown up by now. Most children would have turned from the sight shouting to the heavens. Laelithra had done neither. _

_The child rocked on the balls of her feet, swaying lightly as a gentle wind blew towards them. Once more, the horrid scent and enveloped the two in its stench. Since the smell was stronger, he expected her to react now. She looked down at the creature, pursing her small lips. Laelithra looked thoughtful at the monster._

_It was bloated as the slime slid off of its carcass, saturating the ground beneath of it. The ground would never again spring to life. To whoever would come to that spot, there would always be bare earth where grass grew. Enormous eyes lost their luster as they stared off into oblivion. One of its arms were completely severed, lying in a similar puddle next to the monster's head._

_He wondered if the girl was brave or just stupid. Her knowledge of the world took Geralt by surprise on most occasions. She had the knowledge of a child older than she was. In fact, most of the things she did astonished the witcher. Geralt had never seen a child react with anything short of terror upon seeing the remains of a monster, and most reacted that way upon seeing the White Wolf, himself. His mind worked at an explanation for it._

_Once more, the little girl moved closer to Geralt. It seemed like she could not get a good enough view of the drowner. She reached her hand up, placing it on his thigh. Her tiny hand seemed to burn through the leather straps holding a dagger to his leg. Laelithra stretched out her neck, bringing her head forward. Geralt wondered if she would ever blink. Instead, she leaned forward still. She looked on the corpse with familiarity as if it and how the witcher was bent over it was a perfectly normal sight to behold._

"_Was your father teaching you?" he asked, quietly. In a way, the witcher knew the answer. He tried to remember what he knew about Viktor. The elder witcher was ambitious to a fault. His cruelty was legendary among the witcherlings as Geralt's legend was in the country side. There was a part of him that wished for it to not be true. Yet, it was the only possible conclusion he could come to. "Was he bringing dead monsters home and showing you how to cut them up?"_

_Laelithra took a deep breath, puffing out her small chest. Her dark eyes flared, brilliantly as she turned her gaze to the pale witcher. He could read the arrogance in her posture. The small hand still gripped his thigh in innocence. Once more, he thought how she was different from all of the other children he had known. Yet, was she brave or foolish? She nodded, quickly. "Father would hurt me if I could not get the names or the cuts right. I learned the parts, quickly."_

_Geralt clenched his teeth as he heard the violence that was visited by the girl's father. The White Wolf would never visit violence on his pupil. A good trainer did not have need to._

"_And he had me kill one. He said it was a drowner. He cut its leg, gave me his sword, and had me kill it." she said with pride. Her eyes sought his for approval. He could feel it radiating off of her. She smiled, predatory as if the simple act would make him proud of her. "He said I couldn't because I was a girl, but I did."_

_Suddenly, Geralt's eyes widened. The witcher did know how long Viktor had her for. He did not know the circumstances around the elder witcher acquiring Laelithra. Those things did not matter to him. Deep within him, he felt uneasy about the child. She was only five. A scowl appeared on his face, enhancing the deep wrinkles around his eyes, forehead, and mouth. Geralt knew five was a very young age to be subjected to training with monsters. Even maimed creatures were unpredictable. With this answer, he finally understood how Laelithra managed to slice through the alp. What Viktor had done was extremely dangerous and risky. He was even more foolish than he had been in Kaer Morhen, Geralt thought to himself. _

_She continued to stare up at him with her dark eyes. Gone was the curiosity from the monster and upcoming lesson. That was replaced with something else. He could read the inquisitiveness in her eyes, could feel the need for approval in her voice, and could feel the longing for a father that was decease. Geralt could not be that for her. _

_Suddenly, he shook his head in disbelief. There was something else that he wished to know, something he was sure of. Yet, there was the hope inside of him again. It pleaded with him for the answer not to be true. "What was he feeding you, Laelithra?"_

_Her head tilted as she looked up at him. Excitement swirled in the dark depths, leaving no doubt to her emotions. It took Geralt by surprise, making the hope extinguish inside of him. Deep inside of the witcher, he knew the truth to his question. Geralt closed his eyes, awaiting the answer of the young girl._

"_He thought I was a bunny!" _

_It was the action that Geralt had hoped against. The truth did not surprise him as he thought it would have. There was not much that astonished Geralt much anymore. Yet, it seemed that everything that did concerned the cherub child before him. She was unlike any child she had met, and she was like them all._

_Laelithra slid her hand around his thigh, causing the leather belts to shift slightly. He could not understand the small child. All experience dictated she should have fled from him screaming. At the very least, she should have warmed to him after a few months. The small girl had done the opposite. She could not part from him almost the instant he found her. Geralt could not deny it felt nice to be needed for anything other than slaying monsters and intimacy. _

_She locked her hands behind his thigh, refusing to move. Laelithra crept closer to him in her embrace._

_His dagger pressed into his witcher's leathers and her small side. It grew uncomfortable for him, and he shifted lightly to adjust for the extra weight. Blood, gore, and slime from the drowner dripped off of him, landing in thick plops off the ground. His gaunt cheeks were painted crimson. He wrapped his hand around her and held her back. The witcher would never be what Viktor was to her; he could not be._

_Suddenly, Laelithra lay her head against the side of his body. He thought she would have turned and went back to camp long ago. Instead, she cuddled up to him. When Geralt stiffened, she pressed her cheek against him. Her cheek dragged in the bright red of his side, transferring to her own flesh. Geralt still thought she would have ran to the camp. Yet, he felt her tilt her head up. "He fed me yucky mushrooms and grass. I was not allowed meat," she replied, softly. She nuzzled against Geralt._

_Reaching up with his free hand, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He squeezed hard. Once more, he knew what was to be true and what wasn't. It did not mean he had to believe it. His mind searched for other possibilities, refusing to believe the stories Laelithra told him about her father. He always refused to believe her. Girls had an active imagination, and the young girl clinging to his side was no different._

"_Once I stole a chicken leg from his dinner, Father beat me for it. He always said I should have been a boy when I was a bad girl." _

_Opening his eyes again, his golden gaze flamed as if it was fire enveloping a cave's opening. He shook his head again, quickly. Many called Geralt a hard ass. In fact, it was a quality in Geralt that he preferred in himself. He sought the truth with his uncompromising outlook, and it had not failed him so far. Yet, even he knew there was a difference between a hard ass and an asshole. The more the girl told him about her father the more Viktor was beginning to sound like the latter. Geralt knew Viktor was a crazy fool when he was in Kaer Morhen. Although he was hard on the witcherlings, Viktor relented when it became dangerous for them._

_His companion smiled up at him, beaming at him. Blood streaked down her flesh, and she squeezed his thigh tighter. The girl's grip was strong, and it was starting to sink into Geralt. Yet, there was a still apart of him who hoped that it was not true. Despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary, he wished that it would not be. _

_Looking down his arm into the little girl's eyes, his jaw tensed. Could this tiny girl truly be the witcher's child of destiny, his surprise? Geralt knew it was not unheard of because he was proof himself. Destiny tended to visit cruelty on them, and Geralt was proof of that too._

_Could another witcher have truly survived the attack on Kaer Morhen? Geralt did not witness it because he was not there at the time. Vesemir had always said no one survived. He could not have known for sure because he survived by hiding. He did not **see **any survivors. Yet, it did not mean there was not any. _

_A cold wind blew through him,and it was not cause by the gentle breeze by the river. For so long, he had deliberately avoided talking about Laelithra's father. He had told her he believed her tales. There was doubts in his mind. Geralt doubted everything that he personally did not witness. Viktor. The name echoed through Geralt's mind. How did he survive? He felt the first inklings of betrayal. Could one of their own really had worked with the humans and sorcerers? Is that how he made it out if it was true? So many unanswered questions ran through his mind as he gazed at the tiny girl. _

_There was another possibility. Upon his own travels, he would occasionally comes across humans who killed monsters. While they were not as successful as a witcher, they did do it. It explained why there was less monsters in the world. Yet, these humans would often fall prey to whatever the job they had took. They were no witcher. That was even less likely than Viktor being who he said he was._

_She continued to stare at him curiously. Her lips turned up in a smile. Immediately, she rested her cheek on his side again._

_There was only one way to help cement the possibility in Geralt's mind. If Viktor was not a witcher or if Laelithra was lying about who she was, this could leave her a slobbering fool. He did not look forward to ruining the small girl. However, the other man had long since ruined her if he was who he said he was. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a knife. The weapon gleamed, flashing coldly in the naked light of the moon. Its blade curved upward, tapering off at the end in a very sharp point. Geralt nodded his head once at the corpse. "You know, then, what this is?" he questioned, coolly._

"_It's a drowner. I said already."_

_The witcher nodded, but he did not smile. There was not a bone left in his body that found humor at his thoughts. He did not like the notion of one from his own clan escaping the massacre and refusing contact with them, stealing from them, and taking it upon himself to train and possibly mutate a child. To Geralt, there was no humor in this. No one knew Viktor's motives for such a thing. Swinging his free arm wide, he motioned to the corpse. "Show me how you would remove its tongue," he directed, harshly._

_As she her head once more, Geralt could read the suspicion and hurt lurking deep within her gaze. When it did not concern women, he considered himself a pretty good reader of people. She grasped the handle of the blade, looking uncertain for a moment._

_Relief washed over Geralt. Perhaps, it was true, and either Laeltihra or Viktor lied about who he was. If he had trained her in the dissection of creatures, she would not have hesitated. Laelithra was an orphan, and her parents were killed in the war. It would not be the first time he came across something like that. She lied to get in his good graces. To have a witcher protect her would be better than having some human. Yes, that was it._

"_Just a knife? I need either a pair of tongs or a hook. Father would often use a pair of tongs so I did not have to touch it. He said getting certain monsters blood or other liquid on me could kill me. Oh, you need to hold the head. Father used to hold the head and force the mouth open for me. Geralt..."_

_With exasperation, he held up his hand to halt the barrage of requests spewing forth from the little girl. If she could slay anything with her mouth, she would be a better monster slaying than he even was. Briefly, he wondered if the Addan Anye could be used in a vocal form. If so, the young girl had mastered it. It would seem that Viktor was not a complete asshole if he insisted on coddling the girl._

_She looked up at him, waiting._

_Withdrawing his hand from her back and prying her hands from his thigh, he stood, moved forward on the ground, and knelt again. He reached out for the drowner, dragging its spindly body to him. He wrenched its head around on its neck with one hand. Cartilage snapped, echoing in the night. Geralt wrenched the mouth open, and the bones cracked under the force of his strength. Once more, he nodded to Laelithra. "I'll do this much," he said, "but I do not have tongs. You'll just have to make due."_

_She approached, slowly with the knife. Once beside him, she cocked her head, gazing at Geralt. Curiosity illuminated her eyes, glowing from within. The witcher followed her gaze to the creature's hanging lower jaw. Its long, tongue hung out of its mouth, and the underside dragged against the monster's blunted teeth. _

_Geralt remembered what she had said a few moments ago about her father forbidden her to touch the creatures. "A witcher does not need tongs or a hook," he assured her. The White Wolf was unconsciously slipping into the role of a teacher with the young girl. As with all her lessons, that did not include sword play, he was not even aware of it. There was a rapport built between the two, and it was something that even he could not explain. On some nights, it kept Geralt awake as an uneasiness settled into him. "There is no reason to carry more than you truly need. You can hold the tongue with your hand. Do not be afraid to get your hands dirty. Their blood is not harmful." He nodded, again, at the corpse he held with his hands._

_A look of confusion over came her face. He looked at her, waiting for her to come forward and do what he bidden. For a brief moment, he was hopeful. Perhaps, the hesitation in the girl meant that the witcher Viktor was truly dead. He had perished in the assault, and the girl was mistaken._

_Suddenly, Laeltihra shrugged. Her thin shoulders squared, and she gazed fiercely into his eyes. She had traveled with him enough now to return the looks he had gave. Perhaps, she was doubting he was a witcher, too. The White Wolf could not be sure. He was reminded when they first met, and she did not know what a witcher was. If Viktor was who he said he was, why would he leave that out? Surely, he would have told her what he was. It did not make sense to Geralt._

_She , stepped forward, and knelt once more next to Geralt. Over the stench of blood and decay, he could smell the soap and shampoo he had purchased for her. He, the White Wolf, purchasing things for a girl and did not require anything back. Once more, he wondered what it was about the girl. Fervently, he hoped that she was wrong about her father._

_Laelithra touched the tip of its tongue with her hand. He could read the conflicts written plainly on her face. The slime and blood dripped from its mouth, running down the muscle. It coated her hand. She grumbled slightly. Once more, the stench , emitting from the orifices of the dead creature. Still, Laelithra did not gag. It disturbed Geralt more and more as time moved on slowly._

_Immediately, the young girl pulled it all the way out. She tightened her grip on the slippery appendage, squeezing it. Bits of blood clung to her fingers and palm. If he thought she would have become squeamish then, he was mistaken. There was no look of revulsion in her gaze. The only thing that registered with him was a look of intense concentration. It was a look that mirrored Geralt's._

_Next, she placed the knife underneath the muscled organ. The curve blade fit against the flesh of the tongue, making a perfect fit. Briefly, he wondered if she would indeed do what he wanted. Perhaps, she would loose her nerve. It was better than the other possibility: a witcher betraying his own school. In a quick flick of her wrist, it was severed from the body. He noted that it was faster than a human would have been. Maybe, it was just his imagination. Blood splattered on her brow, sliding down her eye, and dripping off the point of her nose._

_After the tongue was severed, she stood back up. Her dark eyes searched for his gold ones, and they found them again. There was pride in her stance. With her hand resting against her side, the knife left a blood smear on the tiny burlap shirt. The other hand, she held the dark, blood soaked organ and offered it to him. "Is this good?" she asked him, seeking his approval._

_Was it good? His mind echoed. Most young novices only cut the tip of the tongue off their first monster. It was a trial and error system when learning to dissect creatures. Sometimes too much skin could be taken or not enough organ was left on the specimen. It did not account for the complete destruction of the creature. Laelithra had extracted all of it without a second thought. Was it natural to her?_

"_He would beat me if I did not get the right amount."_

_For the moment, he ignored her admittance. Geralt nodded again. He as surprised that she had removed the whole tongue. It did not leave much doubt to what Viktor was, now. "That's good," Geralt said, quietly. The simple praise was about the best anyone would get out of the White Wolf. He was not one for words It was not that he did not care for Laelithra or her abilities. In fact, it was just the opposite. For a brief moment, he marveled at the tiny girl. Gearlt of Rivia always kept things simple and honest._

_Still, his mind could not understand the importance of the situation. He did not like it. The entire situation stunk more than a striga in summer. It worried him that a witcher kept himself away from the others. The fact that he would train a child, a GIRL child at that, disturbed him. In fact, it bothered him that he had her on the Diet. Where did he get the mushrooms and herbs? They only grew in Kaer Morhen. Everything pointed towards Viktor stealing from them. How much did he steal from his own kin, to what end?_

_As the wheels in his mind spun like a water wheel, he had to find something in his mind that could disprove what was all but proven. Geralt was stubborn as they came, and he would not believe it. He closed his eyes once more, willing the thoughts to vanish. The unease rushed over him, and dread spread its tendrils inside. He clung to the one thing that could disprove it. "Did your father have a medallion that he wore all of the time?" he asked, trying not to sound desperate. "It would have been shaped like an animal's head."_

_Laelithra's hand went instinctively into the flap of the satchel that she carried. She sought his eyes like a frightened animal. For a brief moment, he thought she would run. "No. He did not wear it at all. He said those that did were hypocrites, taking money for services they should be offering for free. Innocents are innocents he would say. Whether they could pay or not, everyone deserve our protection."_

_It made sense to Geralt now. She would would evade the vampires, this Arcani, who sought to capture her. Geralt still did not understand why they were after her, but he understood how she escaped their clutches most of the time. The vibration of the medallion would tell her that. Yet, perhaps, it was not the same Viktor. His mind argued with him. There were two additional schools, he reminded himself. It would mean that one of their own did not steal from them._

_As she removed her hand from the pack, the moonlight glinted on the silver chain hanging over her palm. She clasped the medallion tightly. Laelithra gazed into his eyes, and he was able to read the nervousness in them. He tried to remind himself the silver sword and the medallion must have been the only heirlooms from the man who raised her. The man that allowed them to think he was dead, the man who stole from them, the man who was giving a diet to a girl without knowing the risks, his mind screamed angrily at him. As if she sensed his thoughts, she recoiled from him._

_Geralt tried his best to be gentle and reassuring He forced a smile, making the deep scars on his face to lighten. Yet, he was a witcher and not a nursemaid. The witcher failed, and he failed, miserably. The look made him resemble someone who had constipation. After all, many would not call Geralt handsome. In fact, the smile he offered the child was hideous at best. "Let me see it," he requested. "I won't take it from you."_

_Yet, the tiny girl glowed underneath his affectionate look. She smiled her own, mimicking the witcher. Even though he was uncertain about the child and her origins, he could not deny he had a way with the child. He felt uneasy about their friendship. It was a relationship born out of a need. Laelithra needed Geralt's protection, but he did not know what he got from it. All he knew was the more time he spent with the tiny girl, the more deeper he was in. After all, she needed him._

_Laelithra extended her hand, dropping the amulet into his own. As with other small children, her attention drifted to something else. She was no different. Tilting her head, she looked at him. The moonlight angled down, making her hair glisten pure white. Geralt could feel the eagerness wash off of her, exuding into the waning night. Immediately, she nodded to the corpse. "That was fun! Can I cut more of it?" she asked, excitedly. Rarely was he around children who did not scream at the sight of him. Even more rarely did they ask to dissect more of a drowner._

_Geralt ignored the request. His gaze was pulled to the medallion in the palm of his head. He let the amulet swing free in his hand. The Wolf head revolved slowly as he dangled it before his face. Brilliant silver flashed, running along the curves of the object. Its ruby eyes stared up at him in an endless, silent snarl. It was exactly like his, even the material. As he examined it, there was no doubt in his mind that the amulet was real. _

_In fact, it seemed convoluted to try to explain it as a found or won relic. As long as he could remember, he knew about the ways of others. It was the perk of working with those he did. Anyone who'd found a solid silver amulet with rubies for eyes, regardless of its nature,would probably sell it for coin. Because a human would not find any usefulness for the medallion, coin would be more useful to them._

_Also, he could not find one convincing reason why someone would fraudulently claim to be a witcher. Witchers were loved when they were needed. Men and women would sing their praises when they offered them a task. No one wanted a creature living in their basement, he thought, grimly. After their work was complete, they were expected to collect their reward and skip town. When their was no rocks, they would be met with the stones. Most villagers knew Geralt and other witchers as vagabonds, men without a home. Yet, that was not exactly true. Even Viktor had Kaer Morhen._

_As he stared at the medallion, a very distant memory crept into the fore of his mind. Geralt was reminded of first receiving his own. He had earned his symbol of the Wolf School. Back then, he was enthusiastic about setting out on the Path, dreaming of the first monster he would come across. The witcher was filled with a purpose as pride spread through him. _

_There was no doubt in the witcher's mind anymore whether Viktor was alive or dead at that point. If he was alive, Laelithra would not have the medallion. Geralt was more certain about that than he was about anything concerning the child. A witcher, even one who openly resented his kin apparently, did not part willingly with his medallion. It was not simple jewelry to them. The medallion was an extension of themselves._

_Turning to Laelithra, he dropped the amulet back into her small palm. He had promised he would not take it from her, and he would keep that promise to her. The chain slithered through the space of their hands, landing into a writhing mound as it piled in her hand. Immediately, she stowed it in her pack, placing it into a secret pouch he was sure that she sewn into the lining. At least, she thought it was secret. Nothing passed Geralt's observation._

_When she turned away from him, he took off his own medallion. It swung before his eyes as the other amulet had done seconds before. A sick feeling settled into his gut, churning his stomach. Viktor had not died in the assault. It was clear now. How did he manage to survive it? Vesemir had by hiding. Was that how Viktor did? If he had, the other witcher would have seen him afterward. Narrowing his eyes, Geralt came to three possible conclusions. He was helping the humans, sorcerers, and the other school on the assault, he had help from an outside force, or he left Witcher's Settlement before the attack occurred. _

_Another thing that was obvious to the witcher was where the elder witcher had gotten the herbs to begin Laelithra's diet. One of their own faded from the world after he had stole from his clan. It was unheard of to Geralt. Viktor had taken the herbs from Kaer Morhen when he fled. How much of the herbs did he bring with him? The White Wolf did not even have any idea of how much. They did not really take a stock of the inventory because the witchers did not believe one of their own could betray them to the extent that Viktor had apparently. _

_Viktor was trying to mutate the girl, himself. It explained her agility and strength. Geralt knew he needed more than himself to do it. There was magic involved. The other witcher needed a enchanter to give the elixirs to the girl, and it was the sorcerer who would watch over her during the Changes. Suddenly, he liked the idea of this organization getting their hands on the child less and else._

_Yet, why would this Arcani be attempting to create another witcher? As far as he could tell, they were comprised of vampires. Why would vampires create something that would slay them in the end? It was the destiny of a witcher. Surely, they knew that._

_Slowly, the wolf's head stopped spinning. He diverted his gaze from it, glancing over at the girl. "I'm fairly certain your father was a witcher," Geralt said. "That shouldn't be possible, but that's what it looks like."_

"_I told you Father was a witcher."_

_Geralt ignored the comment as his train of thought continued. Despite of everything he had learned from that night, there was one thing that bothered him. Laelithra was insistent that Viktor took no money from those he worked for. "There is one thing, though, that sticks," Geralt continued, quietly. "He took work for no money? I've **never** heard of a witcher doing that by his own choice."_

_She plopped down beside Geralt again. He could see the mists of memories clouding her vision0. Laelithra stared vaguely at the corpse, stiffening before them. She placed her hand on his thigh once more. Her small, grubby fingers left bloodstains on his leather. Immediately, she let out a tiny sigh, holding her hand against her pack. The young child would do that often when she was nervous. It made sense to Geralt because it was where her father's medallion was. Perhaps, she was relieved she had it back. It was more likely that his thoughts were burdening her. "Why is it strange? Father said he was tired of how everything work. He said new people would have to replace the old. He was not needed in a world full of wickedness where the true monsters paid for the services of his kind. Father would take money for different papers on the road when we needed supplies...or I needed a new dress." He watched her tiny lips frown in a resemblance to one of his own scowls. "He always said that I should learn how to sew, too." _

_He nodded at her. "I can understand why he'd want you to know how to sew," he jibbed, quietly. "You're a girl." It had been a joke. Unfortunately, the sarcasm in the witcher's voice was lost on the child. Although it could be said that many could not understand Geralt's wit because he did not find humor in many things. The man had strange tastes._

_Laelithra stood up, and her dark eyes flared angrily. Her feet spread apart. Immediately, she planted her fists on her hips. She had a flair for the dramatic when she felt furious. The young girl hugged in indignation as Geralt watched her young mind try to come up with an answer to his innocent comment._

_Once again, his thoughts drifted to Viktor. From what she'd told him, Viktor had not changed much from the days of Kaer Morhen. The elder witcher was extremely serious, meticulous, and obsessed with details. It explained why he used tools to butcher his kills. He wanted to be in control, determining the fate of everything in his path. Wanting to be exact, he accomplished it in everything from removing a drowner's tongue to training the little girl. _

_There was several problems wrong with being exact. Exact was not practical. Sometimes, there was not enough time to sit down and butcher kills. Different creatures could have happened upon the witcher. He would need to react rather than be thorough. _

_Then, there was the problem with being to thorough with a kill. Geralt always preferred to take the vital parts of a monster. Sometimes, he would use a cart to wheel in the entire carcass. Most of the time, he brought back proof of his kills and left the carcass to rot. It was what he would do with the drowner now. It was the villagers responsibilities to clean up after him. He merely freed their town of the infestation. _

_Laelithra continued to look at the corpse, and Geralt realized the harm the elder witcher done unto her. She was not prepared for such a situation. The young girl looked confused as she thought up a response to him. What would she be like when he turned and left the corpse there? He had got what he needed. While she inherited Viktor's strength, she would inherit his weaknesses too. It was the flaw of having only one trainer._

_Finally, her eyes flamed as she looked at him. He knew the response had finally came to her. "I can do anything a boy can do," she seethed. The air around them crackled with the intensity of the little girl's injustice. To any who would have stumbled onto the pair, it would have been quite the sight to see a small child, no more than five, berating a witcher. It was not just any witcher, either. She was reprimanding Geralt of Rivia. "I can do whatever they can do. . .better."_

_Geralt had trouble containing the smile that threatened to spill over his scarred features. The little girl was so unlike anyone he'd ever met. He watched as she ran her hand through her hair, meeting his eyes. She did have a certain flair to her. Laelithra was a unique flame amidst the world of chaos. Brave, convicted, smart. It would be rare qualities for the woman she would grow into, and they would be traits that the witcher would come to admire. She likely would have fit in well training to become a sorceress, he thought, grimly. Yet, it would seem destiny had another path for the child._

_Despite her sureness, Geralt could not let her have the last word. He called her on her claim, catching her in the ignorance of young. "Piss standing up," Geralt said as he tried not to laugh, rising to his feet._

_Once more, he saw the wheels of her young mind slowly turn. While she was intelligent, she was still a child. Sometimes, the witcher had to be reminded of that. A light entered her gaze again. She walked to him, gracefully placing her steps as Viktor had no doubt taught her. Raising her hand, she thrust her index finger into the center of his chest. "No swearing, sir," she commanded, jamming her small, pointy finger into the leather. _

_For a moment, the witcher looked like the young girl had slapped him. His eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared. It was very surprising to hear the scolding coming from the young child. In fact, he done his share of correcting her language since he'd found her. Her language was colorful and varied. It was a direct influence from the environment she grew up in. Geralt of Rivia had known that too well. Laelithra had the mouth of a guttersnipe. Also, she had the temperament. Some of the words that he'd heard slip from her lips could make even the filthiest innkeeper and prostitute blush. The irony was not lost on Geralt. He was sure that Laelithra did not understand why he was laughing slightly._

_Suddenly, she laughed too. Her chuckle was born from nervousness. He was convinced that she only laughed because he did. Without knowing why, he enveloped her tiny hand within his own._

_Her language was another piece of damning evidence. With every piece that slipped into the jigsaw that was Laelithra's life, he cursed the fact it proved. Once more, he felt like someone had punched him in the stomach when faced with the possibilities of the truth. Viktor was rough, cruel, and vulgar. His words could carve a vypper in half by itself. She spoke like Viktor. In the execution of her speech, she enunciated certain words as did the elder witcher._

_Geralt did not have any more doubt. He resigned himself to the fact that the elder witcher had gone rogue and was training the child, a girl. Complications a, and the other man was not among the living. Viktor, what were you doing, he questioned himself. Geralt steeled himself, promising himself to find out what the other witcher was doing, why he left Kaer Morhen, and how he came across the herbs. _

_Suddenly, his brows narrowed. The witcher's lips narrowed into a thin line. He could not stop the train of thought his mind was running on, nor could he stop the murky fear spreading into his midsection. Of course, he would never show it. "Was there any other children there?" Geralt asked, harshly. _

_Her eyes widened. Laelithra wrenched her hand from his own, jerking backwards as if he had struck her with all the strength he possessed. At first, she did not act like she heard him. After a moment, she glared angrily at him. He had learned early that her moods had varied. The young girl had an aggressiveness to her. At times, she reminded him of Lambert and his brash nature. Now, he began to understand where that violent streak had come from. _

"_Laelithra, this is important," Geralt continued without softening his tone. "Were you alone? Were there any older children there? Do you know if he taught anyone before you?"_

_The young girl placed her hands on her hips again, staring up at him with silent aspersion. He had found that Laelithra could be very sensitive about her reputation of being Viktor's surprise. There was no doubt in Geralt's mind that the other witcher told her how special she was on several occasions. Once more, he watched her eyes flared brilliantly. "I was his destiny," she replied with a sudden onset of anger. At the same time, she poked herself in the chest with one of her fingers. "Father had no need to train icky boys who could not run the path he made through the woods. I knew the ways. Despite rain and snow, I still knew the ways. When he first brought me to the house, my brother was with us. He was given the same yucky mushrooms and grass. Hare was made to do the same things I did."_

_Next, her eyes misted over as tears fell down her face, landing in thick plops onto the grass. A narrow frown set on her angelic face, giving away what she was feeling. Laelithra could not hide her emotions to Geralt. "I ran the path since I was two. So did Hare. Six months later, Father went with Hare as he was put through what Father called...paces. I was left home, being made to practice on the dummies. Those dummies hurt! I remember the bruises I had from them. Father returned later without Hare. He said my brother fell off a log on the path, and the foolish boy broke his neck." The young child turned from him as he sat once again._

_If Geralt's face had had any color to begin with, it would have lost it upon hearing Laelithra's account of her brother. The witcher knew Viktor had blatantly defied fate to take a child of destiny against the child's will. Defying fate was asking for trouble: big trouble._

_Once more, Geralt watched the Wolf's head of his medallion spin in slow circles. The chain crisscrossed as the moonlight bounced off of it. His thoughts grew wild as he digested the words spewed forth from the young girl. Geralt doubted the accident actually occurred. He did not trust Viktor when the other witcher housed in Kaer Morhen. Instead of lessening, the more he learned about the elder witcher increased that mistrust. Because of the boy did not meet Viktor's expectations, Geralt thought the other man had possibly killed the small child. Shaking his head slightly, he wondered how far Viktor's treachery to both the witchers and the girl went._

_She continued to weep for her brother. Geralt stared at his medallion, trying to ignore the uneasiness and anguish seeping off of the girl. He wondered if her sounds would draw additional creatures._

_The White Wolf would not tell the small child of his suspicion on her brother and her father. He did not want to anger or hurt the child by letting her know. Geralt enjoyed the time he spent with the child. It was one of the first times he truly felt happy, and he did not want to jeopardize that. Besides, Viktor was already dead. Destiny had seen to that._

_Yet, Geralt was never one to sugar coat things. He frowned, looking down at the small child. It would be a hard lesson to learn, but he was sure that the child would learn it one day. Once she had quieted, he said, "Your father made a fool mistake, and I do not mean training you. Taking your brother against his will. It is something that we do not do. It is against the Law of Surprise. It is defying destiny. It's most likely the reason he is dead now. Fate is not forgiving."_

_He watched her tiny lips squished together as she tried to think of what he was talking about. The mind of a child, specifically a five year old child, could not grasp the concept he was trying to teach her. While she understood that something bigger than herself tied her to Viktor, she could not comprehend the full ramifications of Viktor taking Hare. The other witcher damned the boy, himself, and possibly the little girl with his actions. _

_It agitated him more than it should have. Standing up, he paced the distance between the little girl and the drowner carcass. At the same time, he slipped the medallion over his neck again._

_Through all of his frustrated movements, he felt her gaze following him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the small child blink in tiredness. Of course, she would be tired. It had been a long night as they scoured the coastline to rid the town of its drowner problem. While the young girl reminded him of a much older child, she was still young. She yawned, loudly. Like any child did, she complained. The only exception was she only complained when she was tired. "I'm sleepy, Geralt. I want to go to bed. I'm too tired to walk. Carry me to Roach," she demanded, quietly._

_For some reason he could not hope to understand, he did not deny Laelithra's request. Inexplicably, he did not mind the prospect of carrying the girl to the Roach. He was covered in blood, dirt, and slim. Frankly, he smelled from the work he had done that night. Yet, he still did not refuse the little girl. Geralt pondered why that was. Was he softening, or was there something else going on? If he was, it was this little girl's fault. There was something about her, something that the White Wolf couldn't put his finger on, that made him want to give her everything she wanted. Most of all, he wanted to see to her safety. Even the witcher knew she did not deserve the hard life she'd had in her short decade._

_Without answering her, he turned from her and stowed the drowner parts in his satchel. Immediately, he turned back to Laelithra and cradled her to his chest. The witcher was very mindful of his sword hilts._

_She wound her arms around his shoulders, letting her arms dangle down his upper form arms. Her feet hooked to his waist. Instantly, she placed her head on his shoulder. It surprised Geralt that she did not mind being close to him when he was painted in the things he was._

"_Don't touch the swords," he commanded, simply. "especially the one with wool inside the sheath. That's my silver sword. It's incredibly sharp and easy to nick."_

_Geralt felt her hot breath against his neck as she nuzzled him. "I know," she answered. It was hard for Geralt to remember she had been receiving witcher training. Much of what Geralt told her, she already knew. Once again, he cursed Viktor silently. This little girl was being robbed of her childhood. The reasons could not have been good. Why else would Viktor need secrecy and not have come to his kin? As Geralt thought about it, the whole situation stunk._

_Leaving the corpse behind without a thought, Geralt journeyed past the river and through the woods. From her even breathing, he did not have to look at her to tell that she was sleeping. Occasionally, she would thump on his arm in a nightmare. The little girl's strength astonished him on several occasions. Why wouldn't it? He asked himself. She was stronger than an average little girl. Viktor had seen to that._

_Arriving back where he tied the Roach, the horse neighed quietly in greeting to the two. Geralt lifted Laelithra up and onto the horse's saddle. _

_She grumbled at being woken. Her face tightened in a whimper. _

_For a long moment, Geralt merely stared up at her. He felt standoffish, and all of his instincts told him to flee. The child was changing him, very slightly. In fact, the more he traveled with her the less he felt like his old self. Reaching out, he snatched the lead line for the horse and started walking out in front of the mare. _

_It did not take for long for the Roach's slow rocking gait to return Laelithra to the land saturated by dreams. Once or twice, she cried out, causing the Roach's ears to flick back. Geralt knew she was having nightmares because it was not the first time she whimpered in the night in his presence. While he usually roused her, that night was different. He had thoughts of his own plaguing him, and he did not disturb her. Even though he would train her to defend herself, he decided he would find a safe place for Laelithra. It would be a place where she would have the chance to grow up normal before it was too late. The only problem was that Geralt did not know if such a thing existed._

He frowned as the memories seeped from his mind, calling him to remember a promise he made to himself that was broken. Looking up from the garkain, he could not help but scoff of a notion of a safe place. The only thing that he helped Laelithra with was getting her captured by this organization.

Running his hands on his legs, he stood from his work. Up ahead of him, he could hear chanting drifting from the depths of the cave. It was accompanied by several quiet whimpers. For Geralt, it was hard for him to judge the distance and direction in the labyrinth of tunnels. He tried his best to keep the sound before him as he made his way deeper into the lair.


	9. Chapter Ten

Downward into the depths of rocky hell, Geralt pursued what he viewed was taken from him. The girl was his only connection to what happened to Viktor. If he had any hope of finding out why the other witcher had gone rogue, Laelithra must remain alive. Yet, it was not the only reason he sought after her. Geralt gave his word to keep her safe. He promised himself that he would find her a safe harbor from all that her father had done to her. He had failed her, and he had betrayed his own self in the process. His teeth clenched together, grinding in angry frustration. Much like anyone, Geralt did not like to admit his shortcomings and failures.

His thoughts turned towards the little girl again. They had became closer than he thought possible. She was the reason he traveled through the caves at this exact moment. Geralt had became the child's protector, and they snatched her from him. The knowledge of it burned deeply in his stomach as if his stomach flopped over on itself.

A pressing need filled inside of Geralt. He pictured the things that the vampires were doing to the young girl. Were they bleeding her, flaying her alive? He remembered the note he had received. No, they wished to keep her alive. Geralt did not know for what purpose. It could not be because of the training the young girl had received. To any one else, she was just a normal child. Grimly, the witcher smiled. Yes, she was just a normal child to anyone else. To Geralt, she was anything but normal. She felt like kin. Shaking his head, he pushed himself into a full sprint. No, she did not just feel like kin. Deep inside Geralt understood, the child and he shared a kinship. Laelithra was his family. Was that what bothered Geralt about her? How did he come to care about her in such a short time span?

Onward, he charged, plunging himself into the twisting depths of an agitated darkness. It cloaked his descent. The urgency to find the girl and the realization of how much he wished to keep her from harm combined with the elixir racing through his veins fueled his blade. Limb after severed limb, body after decapitated body, room after immense room, devastation lay behind the White Wolf.

Pushing off the balls of his feet, he continued his hectic speed into a large, blood stained, gaping room. His concern for the little girl had made him careless again. Another growl of frustration escaped him, forcing from his lungs. The tiny girl had to be her somewhere. Geralt had already searched many rooms. The witcher's quarry escaped him. She needed him.

Dirt and pebbles sprang underneath his boots, clattering behind his footsteps. Sweat saturated his hair, trickled down his neck, and rolled underneath the collar of his jerkin and shirt. His lean muscles bulged from exertion. Through his effort, he would find the girl. Geralt would not give up on her. He clenched his teeth, steadying his breathing. He had his determination and a protective drive pushing him forth. With his determination, there was nothing that could stand in his way.

Unfortunately, the earth decided to challenge Geralt. As he rushed across a small bridge-like rock formation, the ground began to shake underneath of him. The pebbles and intestines shook around his boots, quaking in the dirt and gore covered floor. He could feel it begin to give way, threatening to send him into the abysmal blackness. Because he was a witcher, he wondered what sort of monstrosities lurked there, laying dormant for an untrained soul. Briefly, his mind ran through a list of monsters, both natural and unnatural, that could be in the chasm.

It was the life of a witcher. His thoughts turned to the best places to sell the alchemist ingredients that he, himself, did not make use of. While he worked in the spring, summer, and fall, he would need some extra gold pieces this year. Even though Geralt was frugal, traveling with the little girl had cost him some unexpected expenditures. He had found that he could not deny her of anything. For what seemed a millionth time since their meeting, he wondered if he was softening and what it was about her that caused him to react this way. At least, she was practical. He smiled, slightly. No, at least, she tried to be practical.

As he continued across the pathway, tiny stones shook quickly. The ground grumbled underneath of him, causing him to take pause. Clinks could be heard coming from the latches on his boots as his walk slowed, echoing in the dismal shadows. He walked carefully as his senses alerted him to anything unusual. His gaze continued to watch the bouncing rocks as they vibrated.

The shaking continued, and the ground threatened to collapse underneath the witcher. Straining to listen, he could hear the whistling air as the rock flipped over itself. At first, he could hear the whistling wind as the rock flipped over itself and increased in acceleration. He did not hear it hit the bottom of the chasm. Surely, the darkness did not exceed deep into the bowels of the earth.

Increasing to a roar, the growling behind him reached to a roaring crescendo. Suddenly, the sound of ground cleaving in half roared through the air. It echoed, signaling the death of the object Geralt walked on.

Geralt turned around, searching for the cause of the noise. Even with his heightened senses, the looming darkness was hard to see in. Several large rocks bounced off the edge, hurling to their demise. He could feel a maleficent energy filling the air. While his medallion seethed violently and leaped off his chest in enormous spikes, the witcher glanced around him. With the intensity of the amulet's vibration, the sensations forced his head to bow.

Suddenly, he watched a large crack appear on the part of the bridge he had just traveled. It slithered along the ground, swallowing body parts and boulders alike in its effort to overtake the witcher.

As it thundered towards him, his eyes widened. The look of concern radiated in the golden depths of his eyes. His breath hitched in his chest. Immediately, his hands clenched against his thighs. Yet, the sound of the creaking leather was swallowed by the thunderous noise behind him.

Instantly, he pushed off the balls of his feet. The witcher darted forward as if his entire body had been one long spring. A growl erupted deep from within him, reverberating deep within the room. In fact, the bestial fury blended with the dissonance behind him. His witcher's leathers screamed in protest. Geralt spun around debris, loosing himself in a pirouette. He charged onward, evading falling rocks raining from the ceiling.

A large flat rock to bar the race for his life. It towered over head. Each of its numerous edges jutted out. Geralt scowled. It was never easy. There was never a straight walk to his quarry. Without out a conflicting thought, he rushed up a flat portion of the boulder. Brown and ivory streamed together, blurring in his urgent movements. At the edge of the rock, he did not lose his quicken pace. He bent his knees, leaned forward, and propelled himself through the air.

The darkness threatened to envelop him as his ascent picked up momentum. His ivory ponytail streamed behind him as a leather headband secured it in place. Air rushed out of his lungs, attempting to give the air-borne witcher balance. Beneath his form, the crack continued to race.

Suddenly, Geralt landed with a loud thud on the other side of the rock. His air slammed from his lungs, forcing itself out in burning anguish. Bending over, his body tucked itself into a ball of leather and steel. He tried to outrun the splitting chasm as the ground trembled underneath of him. The White Wolf rolled vertical, using the momentum gained to him during his jump. Geralt could feel the vibrations as his medallion continued to seethe violently.

Finally, he stopped turning over on himself. Geralt stood up in a smooth motion. At the same time, he started to spring forward once more. The White Wolf would not die in a dank cave by his own foolishness. Thoughts of the tiny girl spurred him forth. He would survive this quaking stone bridge. Because he promised to protect her, he had no choice.

Yet, it would seem the earth had other plans for the witcher. It did not care for his fragile loyalty to Laeltihra. Finally, the ground tumbled beneath of him. Geralt's allegiance with Laelithra was stronger than any of the will set against him. Besides the little girl's face would not leave him.. As the ground quaked, he knew he would fall. He could not outrun what fate conspired against him. Reaching up, he pulled on one of the thick, leather straps crisscrossing his chest. His steel sword flamed as it sprung into his grasp as if it was eager for excitement. The ground opened up underneath of his feet, sending both witcher and rocks spiraling to their doom.

As he slipped over the jagged edge, his upper arm smacked into the side. Blood spiraled down his lean arm. It wet the white sleeve of the shirt, soaking the thin black straps hugging the burlap fabric to his flesh. As he descended, he the sword above his head. Even though peril reared its black head to the witcher, calmness shone in the golden depths of his eyes. His movements were precise, slamming the very tip of his steel sword into the round. A metallic ring echoed around the room.

Wrapping both hands around the blade's handle, he his feet and dug them into the side of the plateau. The sword screeched in protest of the wiry witcher's weight. When he jerked forward, the sword would try to buckle. Geralt dug his heels, stopping his descent. This caused more blood to expel from the wound on his shoulder, whirling as tiny bright red orbs free falling in the darkness. He was somewhat surprised, seeing the blood wetting his straining shirt. Because of the elixir coursing through his veins and growing concern for the young child, he did not feel the pain. Not knowing what they were doing to the young girl and his precarious position, he did not have time to wrap the wound.

Geralt's arms flexed from his weight. He did not even feel the excruciating pain associated with his position. This was a boon and a curse. A witcher could bleed out without even realizing it. A primal screech emitted from the witcher, feeding the fury flowing through him like an underground river. He moved his feet, attempting to scale the rock. Slowly, he scaled upwards. Ignoring the protesting groans of the sword plunged into the earth above him, he continued to climb.

His thoughts turned towards the child. If he died here, what would they do to her? A vision of Laelithra's tiny body bound and left to the amusements of the vampires flashed through his thoughts. It steeled his resolve, giving him unknown strength. Once more, he moved his boot, planted it firmly into the wall, and pulled his weight up more.

Yet, destiny was working against the witcher. As the top of his head appeared over the edge, the weapon rang cruelly. The sword screamed of the torture it was receiving from its owner. Suddenly, it clattered to the ground as the blade split in twain. It fueled his rage, intertwining with the wrath he felt at this organization. Once again, Geralt was plummeted downward.

His hands gripped the ground for leverage. Bits of rocks loosened, wrenching free from the ground. Dragging across the ground, his black gloves dug into the ground. Inertia pushed him downward, trying to end him. Geralt pushed his feet forward into the rocky wall harder than before. He let out a primordial snarl. It echoed around the chasm, filling the room.

Geralt's fall was halted as his hands gripped the very edge of the rock. He clenched hard, refusing to give whatever was working against him the satisfaction of accomplishing what it sought to accomplish. Groaning, his arms flexed as he lifted himself up over the edge.

He flipped over onto his back, letting his breathing return to normal. Near his head, the sword lay in two pieces. It had shattered, completely. As he sat up, he looked at the blade. Geralt picked up the two halves of the weapon, frowned widely, and cursed.

…...

Geralt sat utterly alone and looked into the permeating darkness for a moment. His heart thumped rapidly in his chest, threatening to explode. He glanced down at the shards that lay on his lap. The witcher felt angry over the loss of one of his pivotal weapons. It was no surprise. Like most people, Geralt took pride in his possessions. In fact, the steel blade was a gift, and it was irreplaceable.

His golden eyes flashed brilliant orange, fanning the embers of his internal ire at his situation. As he breathed in deeply, his nostrils flared. He clenched his jaw, swearing quietly again. Geralt was sue he would not be able to replace such a gift. The witcher did not consider himself sentimental, but the sword was very important to him. For a moment, he was thankful it was not the silver sword. The metal was precious and expensive. Far more treasured than the steel sword, a gift from his sweetheart. Yet, he hoped he did not meet anything that would be immune to the intact blade.

The witcher knew what would have happened if he did not use the blade to stop his descent. He would have been engulf by the eternal shadow of the cavern. Geralt could not have known what lurked in the deepest recesses. The only thing coursing through his mind was he reacted in such a way that saved his life, and his sword was lost in the process. If he had died, Laelithra would have been left alone to the devices of these monsters. She _needed_ him.

He stood up.

Suddenly, the blackness started to spin around him, whirling and blurring together in a symphony of muted colors. He felt sick. If he could have pale anymore than he already was, he would have passed for a specter. His pulse pumped in his veins, thudding in his ears at an irregular pace. There was times when it beat fast; other times, his heart beat slow. Geralt's upper lip curled upwards into a sneer.

He gazed down his arm, remembering his shoulder had impacted the wall. Blood wet the outside of the shirt, streaking it bright red. It circled against the cloth covering his elbow, slithered down his forearm, and dripped off his wrist in thick plops. He had forgotten. Rage at his situation and concern for the girl coupled with the blissful effects of the elixir clouded his mind. _It_ had made him forget.

Calmly and ignoring the injury, he walked to the edge of the floor and stared down into the black mass of nothingness. Sneering aggressively, he drew back his arm and hurled the shards straight. They arced halfway into the air before they dropped. Ivory gleamed as shafts of moonlight illuminated the twin shards as if the heavens were calling back the meteorite woven into the blades. It cut the darkness as if it was slicing open an alghoul's stomach, glinting in its vertical descent.

Geralt swayed on his feet, trying to remain upright. She needed him, and he had no plans on leaving this place without the small girl. Laelithra required his aid. He would push his body as far as he needed it to go. The witcher had set his mind to the task, and there would be no second guessing for him now. His body had other plans. Geralt's legs gave out, causing him to narrow his golden eyes. He landed on his buttocks forcefully. It should have vibrated through his entire body. Yet, the elixir numbed that pain too.

The witcher unsheathed his silver sword and set it beside him. He removed his glove and black straps circling his upper arm, and blood cascaded off his fingertips. It pooled onto the floor. Geralt gripped the sleeve with his hand. His teeth gnashed together, tightening his jawline. With a violent, jerking force, he pulled his arm forward and tore the sleeve from its seams. A shattering rip echoed through the cavern. Anger soared in his veins as he began to wind the fabric around the wound. Already, this _rescue_ had cost him a good shirt and his steel sword. What more would it cost him, he thought.

Geralt took a breath, holding it within his lungs. He made himself focus as the image of the little girl came to him again. The witcher would not let these vampires accomplish whatever they held the young girl for. Reaching down beside him, he picked up his weapon. Once he had set his mind to something, there was no way out of it. Bent on extracting the girl from the creatures' grasp, there was no way to sway him from his goal. He had one purpose and one ending. Geralt of Rivia would not be persuade to leave the path to success. Immediately, the witcher stood.

From deep within the depths of the gaping chasm, a ball of golden light erupted, spinning in its ascension. The light filled the room, casting unusual shadows on the walls. It shimmered in a brilliant ball of energy and seethed in a golden splendor.

The sudden contrast of light and dark contracted his pupils harshly. It hurt his eyes. Geralt his arm, buried his face into the crook, and hid his eyes. Still, the glistening orb of light percolated through the darkness caused by his body. He did not now what to expect. There were few times when he was accosted by a being of pure energy. Yet, he tried to avoid engaging them.

As the light dimmed, Geralt unshielded his eyes. He did not know what to expect, and it made him nervous. The witcher turned around and faced the energy. Nothing was going to delay him to his task because the small girl was captured. She had showed him kindness in a world full of strife. Geralt did not understand what drove Laelithra, but he would not leave her there. Smiling grimly, he knew he did not know what he was going to face. It made him nervous. However, the orb of energy hovered between him and his path to the small girl.

The vapor around the orb disburse, and a voluptuous, feminine shape emerged. Pale skin glowed with an internal light, creating a flawless, angelic completion. Her crimson ringlets cascaded down her shoulders as if it was a river of blood. A golden circlet encircled er forehead. The edges of the helmet flared up into metal wings. "Witcher, you have come seeking what can not be found," her voice boomed, echoing in the space between the two.

A warmth entered Geralt, and it distracted him from his task, slightly. His mind worked to stay focus in the gentle presence of the creature. Once more, an image of Laelithra floated across his mind. It cleared the mists, reminding him what was at stake if he should lose his way. "Bring forth Laelithra. Bring her to me," he bit out, extenuating every word as if they were weapons. He his weapon, pointed it at the being, gazed along its length, and stared into the vibrant blue eyes of the other.

As she laughed, the sound bounded around the room. She moved towards him, gliding on the hot currents of the air. The glimmering thin metal rods spiraled around her breasts, clanging as she hovered. It pinched those mounds that with the creature's every breath, hoisting them higher than they should have rested. Wrapping one pair of her wings around her body, she hid the thin, fine, linen skirt from his view. Another pair of wings up in the air, and the feathers brushed the tips of her helm. The final set of ivory wings flexed as she moved.

His gaze took in the female form, finding it pleasing to him. Yet, Geralt did not loser his sword. He narrowed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and calmed his senses. The witcher did not know how to react to such a being.

After landing before him, she unsheathed a long sword from her gem encrusted sheath attached to her metal belt. Her blade glimmered in the darkness like a naked, white fire in the midst of night. He swallowed as he took in the sheer size of the weapon. It was easily as large as the witcher.

The ground cracked underneath of her weight as she landed before him. It groaned in objection to the slim, tall mass of woman. Her head nearly reached the stalactites hanging from the ceiling. "You shall answer the Seraph's riddles three. Win, and the Seraph shall grant one wish to thee. That which you seek is the only exception. Lose, and you are mine with no protestation."

Geralt sheathed his sword, relaxing his posture slightly. The being was a vision of pure beauty, disarmingly so. He'd never encountered such a thing before. There were exquisite creatures he was with before, but non as the seraph before him. He did not know what to expect and kept himself ready for anything. His experiences dedicated for him to be ready to change avenues on a moment's notice.

Yet, he swore silently. He did not like riddles. But, he reminded himself that he did not know anything about the creature before him. If there even were any, he did not know her weaknesses. The only thing he knew for defense was to dodge the giant sword. He tried to avoid killing sentient monsters, anyway, unless there was no other way. "Riddles. . ." Geralt muttered. Knowing the being stood in the way before his path to Laelithra and he needed to survive to free her, he shook his head. White hair brushed his cheeks. "Ask me your riddles."

"It is greater than the gods, blacker than the space between the stars. The poor have it, the rich need it. If you eat it, you will die. What is it?" Her voice resounded in the cavern, seemingly coming from every direction.

Maybe, this was not going to prove to be too difficult. His lips curved upwards into an arrogant smile. He gazed up at the creature, craning his neck to see into her eyes. "That's easy," Geralt said, confidently. "The answer is nothing."

Starting to pulsate, the orbs rotated around the winged creature rapidly. One of her wings folded around her, impeding her from the witcher's view. Feathers fluttered in the air as the brilliant light flared once more. Some brushed Geralt's gaunt cheek, sending a cold chill to overtake his body.

Once more, the light made him cast his arm over his eyes. It hurt his eyes, illuminating the dark shadows in the room. He felt the feather's caress his skin, the warming feeling overcoming his body, and the lust in the creature's hidden eyes. Geralt felt like one of its lovers. Longing cracked through him, arcing in his body like lightning. His medallion quaked against his skin, threatening to pull him to the ground. The witcher was ready for anything.

He felt someone pull on his arm, releasing his sight from the blackness of his armor. Looking into the creature's eyes, he felt urges the witcher was not even sure was his own. Geralt had never felt such a need to throw his inhibitions aside. His mind shouted at him to forget Laelithra and give in to the creature before him. It was what he really wanted. Once more, the name of the child brought him out of his self-induced need. For her sake, if nothing else, he would resist.

The abnormally large creature had shrunk. Stopping at the top of his shoulders, she looked up at him. Lust oozed from her, coating his insides in an ebony sludge. She ran her fingertips along his thick stubble. Her touch felt cool and pleasant to him. Once more, his body commanded him to surrender. "The first riddle has been asked and correctly guess. Shall you answer my second riddle and be closer to continuing on your foolish quest?"

"If I have too," he grumbled. As the seraph leaned closer to him, he could smell a scent that would render him physically weak in the future. Cherry blossoms and Jasmine overpowered his senses, taking the breath from his lungs. Once more, his mind clouded over. He stared into the eyes of the creature, and he was blissfully unaware of anything else.

"I can not be seen nor felt. Neither can I be heard or smelt. I lie behind the stars and beneath the hills. I have ended life and killed laughter. What am I?"

Geralt moved slowly as if he were deep in the watery depths of a dream. His medallion spiked off of his chest, vibrating violently, Yet, he did not pay attention to the medallion. Everything around them seemed to fade away, leaving himself and the seraph in his conscious awareness. He found himself wandering where he was or why he was in the cave. It was a pleasant experience, feeling the benevolent wind overtake his soul. Suddenly, he realized realized the malicious nature of the being before him. Beauty was her facade, and it was meant to lower the defenses of men. Sentient, he tried to avoid killing, but the White Wolf stayed his hand for no belligerent monster. However, he would play her game because a plan was being pieced together in his mind.

Leaning in close, Geralt brought his lips mere centimeters from the seraph's. He could feel her cinnamon smelling breath against his skin. Need laced through his veins, threatening to overwhelm him again. It would be a dangerous plan, but Geralt had an iron grip on his self-control. "Darkness," he whispered, barely more than a breath against her lips.

She smiled with delight at his success. "That is, again, correct," she answered, sounding please with himself. Geralt was sure she thought she knew the outcome of his wish. "Steel yourself, witcher. The end is in sight, but the third, and most difficult, you must get right." Instantly, her lips brushed ever so slightly against Geralt's.

The witcher groaned. He did as she said and steeled himself. Yet, it was not because of the intense desire coursing throughout him. Moisture clung to his lips where hers were just a moment before.

"I never was. I am yet to be. I've never been seen, nor will I ever. Even so, I am the confidence and hope of every living thing. What am I?"

Once more, he felt the heat of her breath against his mouth. He his injured arm, brushing the tips of his fingers against the cheek of the otherworldly woman. With satisfaction, he watched her tremble from his touch. As far as the witcher knew, she was the only one of her kind. At the time, Geralt did not know that she was once a benevolent being of unconditional good. Yet, the corruption of Jhaer runs as deep as a river underneath the earth. The vampire was skilled in giving what others wished.

"The future," he whispered against her crimson lips.

"You are right. The wish shall be yours, tonight," she replied, coolly. Once more, her mouth brushed over the witcher's. She tasted differently than anything that Geralt had. The cinnamon taste melted away for something crisper. A intense smell of Jasmine and Cherry blossoms, a scent from the future, overcame his sense. When the creature resembled spring, Geralt felt the urge once more.

For a brief moment, Geralt nearly deviated from his plan. He was overcome by an almost irresistible desire to use his wish exactly how the seraph wanted him to. It was what she expected him to choose. The witcher understood that. With an unexpected suddenness, an image of Laelithra being torture, screaming her little lungs out for _him_, popped into his head. The feeling sobered him, feeling like succor to a drunk man. _He_ was there to save _her_. She had saved him, he thought, mordantly. Geralt understood that the creature was stalling him, giving her masters time to visit their dark purpose on the little girl.

She stood, staring into his eyes. Her lips were a fraction from his own.

"I wish for your sword," Geralt said, nonchalantly. He came out of the haze was a snap of cold, hard reality. Because of his lustful nature, the young girl could already expired. She could be dead. It was something Geralt was not prepared to admit. What as it about the child? Also, he was caught by the intense devotion he felt for Laelithra.

The seraph widened her eyes, looking surprised by his choice. Yet, she was bound by the agreement made before hand. She laid the silver inlay hilt into Geralt's hand.

Geralt felt the weapon fit into his hand seamlessly. It was as if the blade was not even there. Was the blade made for his grip? The witcher truly did not know.

Once more, she leaned in close. She her hand, gripping his shoulder roughly. He could feel the coldness seeping into his skin. Again, his medallion vibrated as if it was going to be ripped from the witcher's neck. The creature did not say anything. Yet, he could feel the need to abandon his quest. It was something he would never be willing to do again.

As the creature pressed her lips to Geralt, he thrust forward in an intimate movement. The blade slipped easily through the exposed stomach of the seraph. He crushed his lips to her own, feeling the heat of fury fueling his movements. This creature sought to distract him, and he would not be distracted.'

Violently, she broke from his affectionate embrace. Because she was a being of pure light, several beams shot out of the wound and overwhelmed the witcher. Her mouth opened wide, screeching her failure to the darkness around them. Her fingers threatened to claw Geralt, grasping him in her death.

As the light vibrated in frequency, Geralt could feel the intense pressure coming from the beast. She had changed before his eyes. Golden embers raced along her flesh, darkening her face with her corruption. She opened her mouth again, screaming violently.

Geralt grasped her shoulder with his strong, large hand. He pulled her forward, sliding the monster along his sword. It flared white in the moonlight and light from the creature as the blade ripped through her back.. Slowly, the grip on his shoulder's lessened as her arm clattered to her side. He hopped away, sprinting for cover.

The only thing protecting his body from the swelling creature was a large protruding rock. Geralt did not understand how the object did not fall when the ground collapsed around him. He breathed roughly, catching his breath.

A column of wild energy emerged from the creature, scorching everything in the room. The shadows were burned away, and the terrified shriek of many monsters lurking in the depths echoed. Suddenly, the creature lifted from the ground. Her body zigzagged around the room as if she was a moth set ablaze. She screamed in agony, making Geralt cover his ears.

Suddenly, a boom came from the ceiling. Light encompassed everything as chunks of raw meat and gore rained down onto the witcher. The pressure of the light inside of her was too much, and the woman exploded. Had he thought, he would have questioned her on Laelithra's location. He was going through the cave without that knowledge. It would be longer to find the small girl. Once more, he steeled his resolve. Too late to worry about that, he thought as he exited the blood-splattered room.

…...

As he raced along the pathway at a crazed pace, the walls of the cave narrowed. A cloying scent of blood from the floor, sickening him. Several large holes bore into the sides of the tunnel. Veins of silver ore glittered in the low light of the cave. Besides the vampires infesting the cave, it was a beautiful, serene mound of rock.

Geralt did not find beauty in his situation, however. The creatures made it a disconsolate, achromatic home. He had face unusual beings in this cult in the very first hours he had begun searching the cave for the girl. His experienced dictated that the creatures he had slain should not have been with the cult, working with the vampires. Yes, necrophages made sense. Yet, Aurochs, karkonos, kikimores, and wyverns did not. None of them should be associating with each other. Yet, he had to cut through a vast majority of those types. It was more than he should have dealt with. The witcher knew the reason for their cohabitation. They were brought together for a higher purpose, serving someone that they held a fierce loyalty for.

The witcher did not know nor had any way of knowing the intense influence of the bruxa hoarding the little girl. Her followers, even the less intelligent one, held a certain fanaticism to her. They see her as no one else could see her. Geralt may look at Jhaer and view a monster needing to be relieved of several body parts for hurting someone he cared for. Yet, the creatures under her iron grip leadership Her intelligent followers killed for her. She ingrained this idea of a perfect world, an Eden, into the minds of her subjects. It would be a world without the need of witchers because complete bliss, delight, and peace would exist. Jhaer would protect them from the infrequent aggressive monsters from that world. The only thing that her subjects would be require to do is cater to her every whim and obey her every law. If they questioned her, they would fall into the category of those rare, obstreperous creatures. Then, they would be dealt with accordingly.

Yet, Geralt knew about their plans for a new world. For some reason, they needed Laelithra. She was the only one who could usher in this new age. He did not know why they needed her. The only information gleamed from the letter was that they could not move forward without the girl. At the time, he did not believe a word of it. Geralt had seen many things and heard many prophecies over the weary years. Many of them did not come , some of them came partly true, and few did come to fruition. This was one of those moments were the creature's plans would not. A delusional, sentient being drove mad with power, professing the end of the world will come. She would lead them all to a glorious new future. Of course, the witcher heard it all before. It happened more times than naught to him.

Geralt did not concern himself with the wars of others. He may have wielded a sword, but he was not a knight. The witcher lacked the proper rationality to be motivated as a hero. Many could have claim him to be a mercenary, defending any from monsters who have coin. He knew his death would come from claws or fangs, deep within the den of a monster who he been hire to kill. It was the way of a witcher's life, and Geralt had become accustomed to it.

He was a walking contradicting of himself. If he had no emotions like he lead many to believe, Geralt would not have been in that particular cave. Laelithra did not pay for his protection, nor did she ask for it on any occasion. The witcher willingly gave himself to her. In fact, he would not have hurt himself, clove his sword in two, or slain the hordes of monster to get to this point if he truly felt what he believed himself. However, the witcher of Rivia could not be more wrong.

A lyrical feminine voice echoed in the passages ways before him. He followed the haunting song, keeping the sound ahead of him most of the time. The witcher listened, trying to make out the individual words sung. His mind feared what he would find at the end of his journey. Deep inside of him, he knew what sort of creature made that noise. Geralt could never forget the encounter he had with that kind. Immediately, the hoary hair on the back of his neck stood on end. A coldness swept through him when he remembered why such a creature would sing as she was.

In a moment of clarity, Geralt of Rivia understood what was being done to the small girl. He clenched his teeth, growling in frustration. As his mind delved back into the annuals of his memories, he knew there was only one reason why a creature would sing. Immediately, he knew what the monster was too. This organization had a higher vampire amidst them. The entire extraction of the girl went from an easy stroll through a cave to damn near impossible.

However, there was something about the child. In his heart, he knew he was the only one who could save her. He did not understand the reasons for his feelings, nor did he know the extent of them. All he comprehended when it came to the girl was that she did not deserve that fate. Confidence hardened inside of his chest.

A malodorous scent drifted to him, making him wretch. Geralt slowed to a walk because he did not know what to expect. The stench reminded him of the streets of towns that did not have sewers. In those types of villages, human dejection piled on the streets. They did not have any way of removing the excrement. These conditions bred a perfect environment in the back alleyways for zeugls. In fact, it was what Geralt thought he was going to experience.

Slowly, he unsheathed his silver sword. The blade gleamed in the harsh, dimly lit caverns. He did not know what to expect, and his body was on edge with the elixir he had taken. Geralt felt a sudden rush of battle lust provided from the elixir coursing through his veins. It had foolishly masked his injuries. If there was a ugly, rotten potato like creature around the bend, he would not be prepared. Of course, he thought he could take anything. His blind devotion to the child made him foolish once more.

He gripped his sword firmly in his hand. Despite his thoughts and worry, he rounded the next bend. Geralt would be ready for anything. Nothing would get in his way of saving the small girl. Not a reeking monster, a alluring creature, or anything else. Geralt had one singular purpose. He stopped when the source of the tart fetor came into view.

Before the male witcher, a human man stood. His bald, scarred, wrinkled head shone in the beams of moonlight filtering through the cracks of the ceiling. Elderly eyes glittered ominously in the darkness. It was as if the human man spent his entire childhood growing up in these caves. As the skeleton like man turned towards Geralt, his bones creaked. In his and, e had a mining pick. "Witcher, you have come as she said you would," the cadaverous man spoke to Geralt. Resembling his appearance, his voice sounded like how gravel felt.

The initial shock of seeing a human working with a hodgepodge of monsters left him almost immediately. Geralt confidently strode across the distance between himself and the gangly bag of pones that spoke to him. Instantly, the witcher's intent shone in the promise in his eyes, gleaming gold in the blackness. He did not need to say anything to the spindly, emaciated man for the threat in his eyes to become real to the other. The witcher did not see a man, though. He saw a minion of the enemy, a monster himself, made so by some indoctrination the witcher did not care to learn about. Geralt wanted Laelithra, and he wanted to get her out. That was the extent of his involvement with the strange cult. Having his fill of strange flying beings, vampires, and royal wyverns, he would be happy to leave them behind him. Of course, he would have to have Laelithra with him. He would not leave without his tiny companion.

The man recoiled from the witcher. Briefly, a look of fear passed over his face. Geralt had no doubt that the man had never witness a witcher in full wrath or had bear the brunt of a witcher's ire. Terror shone in his eyes as the realization slowly came over him. Soon, he would.

Reaching out, Geralt clasped the man's shirt at the collar with an iron grip. The diaphanous material, worn so long without being washes that it was rotting on the other man's bony frame, stretched and tore slightly under the stress. Slamming his back against the rough stone wall, Geralt heard the air forced from the shriveled man's lungs in a sickly wheeze.

Suddenly, the man started to cough violently. Blood splattered around his mouth.

"I'll give you one chance to tell me where the girl is," Geralt growled, aggressively. The potion coursing through his veins was making him unusually aggressive. He was irate, and his eyes smoldered with the it. Of course, he was growing frustrated with all the obstacles in his way before Laelithra. The witcher tightened his grip on the man's collar, and the material around the other's neck almost cut off his labored breathing.

"Please, witcher, spare me," he gagged out between breathes in a hoarse whisper. Geralt could see that the man was having trouble concentrating on him. As the witcher lifted the man up off of his feet, he wailed his arms feebly trying to escape. When Geralt leaned forward into a shaft of light and placed his face centimeters from his own, the man could only see his amber eyes. Instinctively, he recoiled and soiled his pants.

"Refuse to tell me what I wish to know, and I will paint this cave with your blood, one drop at a time. Where is she?"

Something in the demeanor of the man changed. A look of choler entered his gaze, darkening his irises. He worked his mouth like a fish, opening and closing it. As a result, Geralt tightened his grip again and cut off the man's circulation around his neck. He gasped deeply, releasing more sickly air into the witcher's face. Geralt smelled onions, garlic, and the tangy stench of tooth decay. It mixed with his body odor, making the witcher's stomach churn.

"Where. is. Laelithra?" he asked again, asserting complete dominance in his voice. There would be no doubt in his voice that Geralt had meant every word of his threat. The witcher would carve him piece by piece, limb by limp to get the information he required.

Once more, the man formed an O with his mouth, gaping at the white-haired man. Yet, Geralt saw no fear in his eyes. The fear from earlier was replaced with anger. It wasn't the first time that the witcher had seen that look in another's eyes. What his master would do would be worse if the other betrayed her, the witcher ascertained. Immediately, he understood his verbal threats would have no impact on the gangly creature.

"You're too late, witcher," the sickly man wheezed. "Mitress Jhaer has her. The only way you will see her is if you join the Eternal One and lend your blade to her cause." He laughed. A cough overtook his glee, rattling the thin bones of his body. Shaking in Geralt's clutch, he kicked his feet.

As his laugh was cut short by Geralt's fist crashing into his face, the back of his head collided with the wall. Pain reflected in the man's eyes, showing that he did feel it. He would not give the witcher the gratification of knowing he felt it. His nose collapsed under the impact of the witcher's blow, sending blood exploding out onto the floor of the cave.

"Where is she?"

The lanky man stared up at Geralt with a bruise darkening his eyes. Blood ran from his nose, over his lips, and off his chin like a river of thick oil. He would not answer. Fear of the bruxa, his mistress, had stolen the words from his mouth.

Once more, the witcher pulled his arm back and swung his balled up hand into the face of the elderly, sickly gentleman. Yet, Geralt did not see a man before him. He saw a creature who held back key information over a little girl's survival. It did not sit well with the witcher. In fact, it would not sit well with anyone. "Where?" he snarled.

Once more, the back of the man's head bounced off the wall. It cut open his scalp, causing blood to drip in a thin line over the back of his head. He sucked his gore covered bottom lip into his mouth, refusing to acknowledge the witcher's request.

A small, shrill voice carried through the caves, echoing in the labyrinthine cavern. "Geraalt," it cried out, pleading for him to come. He heard the hurt in the voice, the agony of a little girl who could not fathom what was being done to her.

Suddenly, the witcher was urged to a change of tactics by the sudden dire need in the vice calling for him. Geralt did not have time to waste for this human monster, this churl, defying him. Every moment he wasted, battle that he willingly entered, and monster he skinned brought Laelithra closer to her grim fate. He doubted that they would kill her after what he read in the letter, but there were worst fates than death.

He clenched his teeth again, grinding them together. Immediately, he wrenched the man free from the wall. Streaks of bright red fluid ran down the stone wall.

In a fit of rage, fueled by the witcher and the girl's need, Geralt dragged the man back the way he had come. Through his trail, Laelithra's cries for the White Wolf echoed. Through the maze, he retraced his steps with a tight grip on the man's collar. Occasionally, the man would flail wildly and attempt to flee the enraged witcher. All sort of monsters could not escape his grip, and this man was no exception. He was too sickly, pallid, and frail. Suddenly, he stopped at the gory chasm that had almost claimed him, the one that claimed his sword.

Throughout it all, the man did not say a word. He foolishly refused Geralt's requests for information, and he sealed his fate with his defiance. When the witcher pushed him, the sickly human violently tried to grab him.

Geralt rotated his hips, moving to the side. His ponytail fluttered against his cheek again. The witcher ignored it in his unending rage. Once more, Geralt pushed the man forward and brought his feet to the very edge. Under the effects of the elixir, he felt no mercy for him. After all, this man worked willingly with monsters who would kidnap and torture a child. He saw the terrorized eyes meet his own, mixing with anger and fear. No regret. No sadness. Only wrath and need coursed through him.

Then, the witcher thrust his arms forward again and shoved the oaf. The man shouted as his feet slipped from the edge, tumbling into the yawning abyss. His tattered rags flapped against him as if they were flesh hanging off bone.

As he tumbled head over feet, Geralt caught one of his ankles. The witcher would have his information. He did not have time to draw out a torture to extract the information from the man.

The man thrashed from side to side, trying to pull himself up, It was a futile motion because he did not have the witcher's strength or flexibility. His only lifeline was the witcher clinging to his ankle. He screamed in horror, shielding his eyes from the view of the black abyss threatening to swallow him whole.

"Which way to the girl?" Geralt demanded, articulating each word. His voice did not hold a threat anymore. There was no threat to be held in the White Wolf. He meant what he said as before. Yet, there was sinister quality to it. The tone rumbled quietly within the chest of the witcher. "Tell me, and I will release you. Refuse, and I will drop you. Where is she?"

Immediately, the man had stopped writhing. He had given up all hope of escape. The only course would be to fall into the darkness surrounding him, Geralt thought to himself. Shutting his eyes tight with fear, his body stopped shaking. Suddenly, a stream of vomit emerged from his mouth and poured over his face. Hot and burning, it rolled over his eyes and off his forehead because much of it spilled forth from his nostrils. "To the right where you found me," he spit out quickly, fear of the abyss bringing a new willingness out of him. "Go that way until the first left. They are in the main chamber at the end of that hall. Right, left, and straight."

Briefly, Geralt wondered if the man was lying. Had the fear really caused him to divulged the information so quickly? He was silent and did not betray his thoughts.

"Witcher?" the man called up to him, weakly.

"Yes?"

"Release me. You said you would release me."

"That I did," Geralt said, releasing his grip on the man's ankle.

With an ear piercing scream, he plummeted into the deep darkness of the chasm. He twirled over on himself, hitting several ledges on his way down.

For a long time, Geralt could hear the scream as the human fell into the bowels of the earth. He did not feel anything towards this man. There was no pity nor remorse. It was just nothingness. To the White Wolf, the man was a monster by association. In the future, they were even more deceptive as the witcher protected the small girl. Their wickedness would know no bounds. Even children brought into the enemy's service was not safe from the witcher's distrust. Jhaer would see to their loss of innocence. With a satisfying suddenness, the scream was cut short. No, he did not feel compunction for taking the man's life.

He turned from the chasm, making his way towards the child in trouble. He would not let her be used by these monsters. It was his duty to save her.

…...

In a frenzied fury, Geralt raced down the long, low corridor. The walls made him feel like they were closing in on him. They were slick with a seething black substance that the witcher did not know what it was. He did not want to know what it was.

The rhythmical, melodic voice grew louder as he neared the large central chamber. He was almost there. Geralt's medallion vibrated off his chest, landing violently against his jerkin. As his amulet oscillated, he could feel the Force impregnate the air closest to the chamber. It seethed, suffocating the witcher.

Under the crushing weight of the magical energy, Geralt slowed his pace. While there was still an urgency apparent in his movements, he slowed his pace to a walk. He did not know what waited in there for him. The White Wolf was not foolhardy. Because of the creatures he encountered on his way there, he expected more of the same.

It still did not make sense to the witcher. What type of creature had the hold she did on her followers? He still did not understand, and he needed to. To rescue Laelithra, he needed to know why they were so loyal to their mistress. It was an unusual concept to think about with a vampire. Geralt was sure that an alpor led the Arcani. The concept was strange to the witcher.

Yet, vampires were strange beings to many people. Numerous villagers had spread around several myths regarding anything of that nature. It was how people cope with things that they did not understand. It was easier to kowtow to superstition than it was to deal with the realities of any situation. Some occasions, a peasant would say that a love one was turned into those types of creatures because they could not fathom that the creature just wanted to murder their victim. This was incorrect because a vampire was not transformed. They were born like any others were born. A cat does not get changed into lesshie. It was the same thing. A human does not transform into a katakan.

He had encounter a few humans on his way to the central chamber. Was the reason they were working with a vampire because another of her kind mutilated their love ones? It did not make sense to Geralt. Of course, he did not like things when he could not understand a motive. The unknown could cost Geralt his life. His lips frowned. It was not only his life this time, he reminded himself.

Laelithra relied on him. Even though she was still small, she had more faith in him than others. She did not judge him for being different, did not place unreasonable demands on him, or ask him to be something she was not. Instead of judging, she accepted everyone the way that they were. He did not feel like a freak, a monster mutated to fight other monsters.

In exchange, he protected her from those who would harm her because of her nature. Both men and women would seek to use the small child. She was too trusting for her own good. Laelithra could not see the monstrosity in the human species. Geralt knew that most monsters existed in human clothing these days. It was the reason he protect her, sheltering her from those who sought to do her harm. At the same time, he wished to open her eyes. To survive in a world without Geralt or any other man who did not seek her in marriage, she would have to lose her foolish view of the world. Was he going soft? He asked himself again. If he was, it was Laelithra's fault.

He was almost there. The witcher could feel it. His lean body tightened as if he was a spring. Geralt pushed down the emotions he felt rising inside of him. Of course, that was the girl's fault. Even though he denied it, the tiny girl forced him to feel. It caused anxiety to rise in him because he had never felt such a fierce need to keep someone safe. Because the feelings were so intense, he was prepared to rush headlong into unknown odds to save a girl he barely knew. Despite his protests, there was something that drove him to protect the her. He could not leave her to this fate nor could he let them do what they were doing to an innocent child.

As he drew his silver sword from its sheath, he thought about the meaning of his thoughts. It was strange that he considered Laelithra an innocent child. There were no innocence among the people he protected. Sometimes, the people who hired him were no better than the monsters themselves. Yet, Geralt always had a choice of turning down a contract. He believed he was no better than those he killed. After all, that is what the peasants thought. It was the dual nature of the witcher from Rivia, and it would provide conflict in the girl and Geralt's semi-perfect relationship. There was no innocents with the exclusion of Laelithra.

Slowly, he walked into the room. Confidence oozed off him as his footsteps echoed on the natural stonework of the cave and the point of his sword swayed beside him. His jaw clenched as he saw Laelithra.

She was bound to a crude stone throne. Her arms was raised as ropes hooked around her tiny wrists. The rope itself was threaded through a small hole at the top of high back chair. Laelithra lowered her head, resting her chin against the bloody fabric covering her chest. Geralt did not know what he expected, but this was not it. He expected her to lift her head at his entrance, but she did not even acknowledge him. Was he too late?

Then, he saw_ her_. She knelt before the small child and throne, holding a gilded chalice to the child's abdomen. Blood poured from a wound in Laelithra's stomach, draining into the glass. Her long, silken ashen hair covered her complete back, and the gore covered tips swayed against the floor. Once the cup was filled, she . Immediately, the creature started to spin gracefully as she brought the chalice to her lips. Bits of ivory flashed, mixing with her grey wrinkled skin. Slowly, she drank the liquid, savoring it. This was their Mistress Jhaer, a bruxa.

"I'm taking the girl," Geralt demanded.

Their mistress, the bruxa, lowered her gaze to Geralt as if she was expecting him. It was at that time that he understood this enemy realize the weakness in Geralt. He cared for Laelithra. In doing so, he allowed himself to be foolish on many occasions regarding the girl. She smiled a cold, predatory grin. Reaching up, she ran a crimson stained claws through her hair. _ You have arrived just in time, witcher. I always like a little __**entertainment**__ when I drink. _ Slowly, she the goblet to her lips. The crimson liquid splashed, sloshing against the sides. Jhaer closed her eyes as she drank deeply.

Deep inside of him, the witcher had expected a bruxa. He had remembered the images the echoing song had brought to him. Yet, he'd not consciously expected a bruxa. They were exceedingly rare, and exceedingly dangerous, as well. The sights in the room, the manifestation of pure evil that echoed a honeyed voice in his head, the poor child bleeding in the darkness, almost made even the steadfast White Wolf quail. Almost. Stepping carefully and pointing his silver sword at the beast, he moved towards the throne. His eyes never left the bruxa's.

Jhaer's floating form danced around the center of the room, lifting the gem-encrusted, golden chalice to her lips. Without bringing it down nor spilling the precious liquid inside, she spoke to him. _ This girl belongs to us, Geralt. She was sworn to us by her father, just as her brother, Leviticus, was. _

Geralt's gaze was torn from the spinning creature to a tiny boy standing next to the throne. He was not bound like Laelithra was. Instead, he stood as if he was one of the chosen soldiers to protect the king of a kingdom. A baldric crossed his chest, emblazoned with the cult's symbol. Behind the small shoulder, the handle of a steel sword winked in the darkness at Geralt. His sharp features narrowed to a pointed chin much like Laelithra's. Long, shoulder-length, platinum hair brushed the boy's cheek. It was his eyes that Geralt noticed the most. No, it was the eyes of the boy that terrorized even the unwavering witcher. Brilliant green eyes stared out at Geralt as the boy's gaze followed Geralt in the darkness. Thin red lines twisted , intertwining in the whites of the snake shaped eyes.

There was no doubt in Geralt's mind what happened to the child after seeing the boy's eyes. His features were so akin to Laelithra's. Twins. She'd said her brother was dead. What had become of Viktor, he wondered. At that point, Geralt did not care. He wanted only to get Laelithra and get her out. Afterward, he would sort out the mess her _father_ had gotten himself into.

_Think about what you do next, witcher. I don't want to have to kill you, not when you can serve **other** purposes. _In his study of the boy, the creature had stopped twirling. She drifted dangerously close. In her glide, her tiny feet hovered above the ground.

Minions poured into the exit tunnel, sealing off Geralt's escape. There were many different creatures in the mass of bodies. Mostly, there were humans. He realized that they were just fodder for the vampire before him. She did not care about her subjects as she had them convinced of.

_You can continue this futile attempt to rescue the child, die in the effort, and accomplish nothing._

The creature drifted ever closer. She her hand to his wounded arm and touched him.,Her flesh felt cold to the touch, chilling the soul of the witcher. He could feel her breath on his face and smell the sickening sweet odor of blood on it. Laelithra's blood. Her lips were inches away from his own. _Or. . .you can join us. Join us and help us cleanse the world of the blights caused by humanity. You've been teaching the girl. You would still be her teacher, and her brother's, and all of our other **special** initiates. Be their maser, and I will be your mistress. _

In Geralt's mind, there was no doubt what the beast had meant. Everything she said brought a rage in Geralt. Yet, the smell of the little girl's blood on her lips sent a bolt of blinding emotion through him. He shuddered at the thought of the bruxa's suggestion. "Never," he answered calmly. His grating, metallic voice echoed harshly in the silence of the cavernous chamber.

The tiny woman moved away from Geralt. Her lips turned downward as blood drained down her pale skin, soaking the flesh of her breasts. She was stained red with blood. Laelithra's blood. Slowly, she backed away from him, spinning in a beautiful pirouette as she went to the throne.

Laelithra lifted her head as if Geralt's voice had roused her from a dream. His presence seemed to breath life back into the girl, weakly. Yet, she had the courage to move with the vampire at her right. Blood continue to seep from the wound on her stomach. As she whimpered, relief spread through Geralt. At least, she was alive.

Jhaer sat on the throne, crossing her slim, long legs. Sitting diagonal, the flesh of her thighs seemed to beckon the witcher as it called out to his carnal urges. She rested her hands on the stone slaps jetting from the throne.

Once more, the little girl hung her head low. It was too much for her, Geralt thought to himself. Her platinum hair stained red from gore, her own gore, framed her features. He knew she could not see him. The little girl might have been exposed to the diet, but she was still human. "Please, Geralt," she whined to him. His eyes narrowed at the fatigue shaking her voice. "I just want to go."

_Silence!_

Laelithra's whimpering was cut short by the bruxa's venomous commands. The child seemed to shrink as much as the sticky rope would allow her. Her upper lip quivered as she moved. Geralt imagined that the material cut into the little girl's wrist. Again, a trail of blood drizzled from the wound. Yet, she did not make much of a fuss. It impressed the witcher.

He stood still as death, trying to decide a course of action. Pointing his sword at the creature, he looked down his blade, gazed up its point, and stared into the eyes of the unusual woman. If threatened, Geralt would react. Yet, he did not underestimate the vampire before him. Now, he realize what she was, and a sinking feeling entered his gut. The White Wolf did not know how he would get Laelithra from the creature's grasp, but the witcher would find a way. Seeing the pathetic child bleeding in the darkness steeled his resolve.

Jhaer's clear eyes glared coldly at the witcher who was halfway between herself and her minions. With dreamlike grace, she raised one hand and snapped her sharp fingers together. The sound came clear in the silence, echoing in the immense room. Clearly, the woman meant it when she said the White Wolf had but one chance to agree with her plan. Sitting back on the throne, she the cup to her lips again, delicately. The creature was intent to watch for now.

In a sudden rush, the creatures charged as one from the tunnel. They sought to overwhelm the witcher, moving like a well-oiled machine. Geralt could see the lack of emotion and awareness in their gaze. There was something else that bothered him. Most of those rushed him were human. The humans were not like the ragged man the witcher sent tumbling to his death. There was no awareness in their eyes as a monotone moan escaped passed their lips.

He would not kill unnecessary. Even with the elixir rushing in his veins, he would do something to minimize the causalities. These men and women did not move of their own consent. Raising his hands before him, he traced the sign in the air. Immediately, the golden light rushed forth from him, warming the space before Geralt. His ponytail danced wildly in the force of the wind.

Yet, he could not hold the sign for long. It was weakening him, and he had yet faced the real threat. Jhaer. The witcher was sure the bruxa would seek to use his condition to her advantage. She had an unusual intelligence to her. He had no doubt that she would not taste his blood. The potion he took would be useless. He was no fool, and he knew that she was not, either.

Lowering the sign suddenly, the entire crowd fell as one. Each of them reeled from the impact, stumbling over the body of the one beside of him. Above all, Jhaer's laugh carried clearly. She was impressed.

Looking back, Geralt could see another by the throne. He stood next to Laelithra, running his fingertips down the little girl's cheek. Geralt felt the knot in his stomach tightened as he took in the man's presence. His eyes resembled the little girl's brother. While he did not recognize the face nor the eyes, he knew it was the boy who had taken Laelithra. It was the assassin who had scrawled the note, sending Geralt on this chase after a little girl he barely knew.

The man stood up and moved next to the bruxa. "Let me kill him, mistress," he pleaded, earnestly. There was a begging look in his eyes. "Please, mistress, let me kill him alone."

Jhaer smiled and nodded. As if the others sensed her will, they backed away. Slowly, the assassin approached Geralt, taking one step at a time. His confidence exuded from him. He had his mistress's blessing upon him.


	10. Chapter Eleven

Geralt sheathed his silver sword. Immediately, he wrapped his hand around the gilded hilt of his newly acquired steel sword and pulled it from the lizard-skin scabbard on his back with deliberate motions. He wanted it to be noticed so that there would be no doubt where he'd' gotten it. The witcher had killed one of her more powerful lieutenants, but there was another important point he was trying to make. Because he had killed the creature, he had resisted exactly what the Jhaer was trying before, rejecting seduction.

At once, she halted drinking from the cup. Her lips rested against the golden edge. Immediately, her eyes widened.

Circling the assassin slowly, he glared down the length of the blade at the assassin. Each sized the other up. His blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail like Geralt's. From that simple action, the witcher knew the boy had experienced some sort of combat either within the organization or outside of it. The assassin was lean with limbs wiry from the training he'd undergone for years. He would be quick, but all the advantages lied with the witcher. Geralt had strength, reach, and experience. All Geralt would need to do is get close enough, and the boy's quickness would not matter one bit. It was one thing to dodge a lunging blade at several feet. It was another entirely to dodge it close up, within arm's reach of your opponent. As he stared into the eyes of the other, the witcher did not doubt that the assassin took potions, himself. He knew he would have to feel it out at first to judge.

Finally, with twin grunts, they came together. Their blades crashed loudly between them and echoed sharply. Sparks flashed in the darkness, illuminating Geralt and the boy for the bound girl. For a few seconds, both stood locked together.

The assassin stumbled back a step. Geralt knew he was not prepared for the brute strength of the witcher. His body build was deceiving. Most believed the witcher to be agile, and he was. He had enough time to hone the speed in his body, perfecting himself in ways that normal humans could not. Yet, it was not the only side of the White Wolf. A sleeping strength lay in his muscles, releasing itself when he was in combat. Because he trained in every spare moment, his instincts and prowess was perfected.

Immediately, a cold smile crossed the witcher's face. Geralt had the strength, indeed. A stark sureness within him. Of course, he did not think the whelp could best him. By the look of the assassin's face, the boy could not have been no more than the age of sixteen. He was not afraid of the child. Even though he was fearful of death and mutilation, he did not doubt his abilities. In his line of work, he could not afford to listen to his mind's incertitude. A witcher did not listen to the doubts that plagued him because it would make his reactions slow. No, the assassin winning was not what made the sudden confidence bolster inside of him.

He wasted precious time fighting the bruxa's minions and her elite guards. Laelithra's life hung in the balance. While Jhaer did not wish to kill her, the little girl had lost much blood in her stay in the clutches of her enemies. Bruxae could not control their blood lust. Like most of her kind, the witcher understood their mistress was addicted to the crimson fluid like a frequent patron at a tavern. Even if she did not mean to, she was draining the life out of the small child. Sadly, Geralt knew she could not stop herself.

Yet, a hope in him. It soared in his movements, his thoughts, and the smile on his lips. This boy would fall rather fast. Geralt was as sure of that as he was of any of the monster lore. In his intense focus, he did not give much thought to the boy's eyes or the fact that the youngster was mutated. He would not allow his body to process that information or question why this vampire cult was producing mutants, yet.

Even in his concentration, he noticed the similarities between the child's stance and what he remembered of Viktor. As the assassin swung widely, Geralt placed his feet apart before entering into a full spin and pirouetted along the right side of the assassin. As soon as the momentum increased, he stopped and faced the assassin. Once more, their blades rung together and sent flash of light in the darkness. Taking an opening, his blade looped around with a flick of his wrist. It screamed angrily in the air.

Again, it was met with the other blade of the boy. He had parried Geralt's attack, flawlessly. There was no doubt in his mind now to who had trained the boy. Viktor would know the steps of the witcher's training. The elder witcher had trained several of the witcherlings during his time at Kaer Morhen. There was something different about the way the boy moved. It was something that the witcher could not put his finger on.

Geralt did not let up. As the assassin continued to stumble from the sheer force of the witcher's blows, he followed step for step. He would not let a distance grow between them or give the child room to maneuver. With the witcher close to him, it gave the boy a disadvantage. There would be no use for the assassin's quickness.

Instantly, the boy gave ground, backing away slowly. He tried to circle around to the left and recover any position he had lost.

The witcher was not about to let that happen. He stepped aggressively forward with his left foot, moving into the assassin's path. Geralt knew both his and the little girl's life were at stake. Jhaer would not be able to control herself. The witcher narrowed his eyes at the boy. While sadism drove the assassin, something else drove Geralt. His oath to the girl. Knowing how he felt, he would not leave here without her. No, he could not leave without her.

As the boy struck quickly, he slashed his sword towards Geralt's right side. His lips curled up in a sneer. The witcher could smell the blood on him and his weapons. Was it the little girl's? Instantly, the thought enraged the witcher. He had to calm himself and battle coolly. In fact, the only alternative was death. She drove his actions.

Geralt parried the blow. He blocked the assassin's blade, making the strongest part of his sword's blade connect with the assassin's foible. The witcher sought to overpower him with strength alone. There would be no way the child could hope to outmaneuver the White Wolf. Immediately, he clenched his teeth together as determination sang through his muscles.

The force of the impact pushed the assassin's arm away, leaving him exposed. If Geralt had expected the youngster to back down, he was surely mistaken. Even when the edge of the witcher's blade grazed the boy's arm, the child held onto his hostility towards Geralt. Blood dripped off a slight wound on his upper forearm, trickled down, and wet the ebony Arcani livery.

Once more, Geralt was sure this battle would be over soon. The assurance of the outcome surged through him. The real enemy sat on the throne, watching over the fight with increasing interest. Immediately, the witcher knew what she meant by other special initiates. How many more assassins did she house in her organization? Two mutated children was more than enough for the White Wolf.

In his parry, Geralt had left himself exposed as well. Yet, it was to no weapon he would have expected. The way that the assassins of Arcani worked was by their agility. When they had no use of using that, there was something else in their lethal disposal. It was no less deadly to humans and non-humans as the silver sword was to monsters.

Immediately, the boy extended his arm. The soft flutter of his armor sounded around both of them. At the same time, he pressed the palm of his hand to the witcher's right side and exposed midsection exposed by Geralt's aggressive attack.

Geralt could feel the click of a mechanism he had no way to prepare for. The witcher did not know such a device existed. Slowly, small gears turned in the other boy's wristguard. Immediately, a searing pain ignited in his side. He grunted. While the elixir dulled most of the agony, he still felt a great amount of it.

The boy stepped back and pulled the blade out of Geralt's abdomen, looking arrogantly at the White Wolf. A slim punch dagger glistened in the darkness. Blood wet the fuller, raced in lines down the edges, and dripped off the point. Geralt's blood.

Feeling dizzy, blood gushed from the witcher's wound, running in a black torrent down his side. It slipped over the wrinkles in his jerkin, landing in puddles on the floor. He stepped back, staring at the assassin in shock. He'd never seen a weapon like that. He didn't expect it.

The assassin's young voice echoed in the cavern as he laughed. In fact, the metallic chuckle reverberated around the room. "Your time is passed, old man," he boasted. "Don't worry. I'll take real good care of the girl, just like I did when I brought her here."

As his eyes narrowed, the witcher did not answer him. He remained quiet with his gaze fixated on the youthful man. There were times when he thought he was getting to old for bravado. Geralt had misjudged his foe, taking comfort in his own abilities. The White Wolf could not deny the error of his ways. Yet, he remained different from others. Geralt learned from his mistakes. No other assassin would be able to do the same thing to him.

Like a prized hound besting the top dog, the boy strutted over to the throne. He reached out with his hand and ran his knuckles down the side of Laelithra's face.

Immediately, the young girl cowered from him. As far as her ropes allowed her too, she pulled away from him. Geralt could read the revulsion in her eyes, and he knew what happened to her before the assassin said anything. A woman only shied away from someone like that when the man . . . He could not finish his thought.

Silently, the boy turned his head to look at Geralt. He did not say anything. Of course, he did not have to. His slitted eyes flashed as he gazed at the witcher. Suddenly, the assassin smiled maliciously at him. "So young, but not so innocent. No, not anymore," he finally spoke. It was more to himself than to Geralt.

Upon seeing her minion's confession, the bruxa's mouth curled upward. She placed the chalice on the stand next to the throne, delicately. Immediately, she placed one of her hands on her knees. The other she placed on her cheek. Jhaer continued to watch the altercation with increasing interest.

Geralt did not need to see Laelithra's eyes nor did he need to feel her body tremble to understand what the boy spoke was true. She could not keep her body from relaxing into the child before her. The witcher could see the fatigue set in her body. It did not allow her to struggle against her binds

Anger filled Geralt, being fueled by the witcher's elixir coursing through his veins. Throughout his relationship with Laelithra, he had a vision of the little girl. She could do no wrong in Geralt's eyes. A monster of unspeakable evil would cause such hurt to the precious girl. In the wake of the burning ire, he willed the pain to stop. His rage was overflowing. Had she come to mean so much to the witcher in such a short time?

A low growl erupted from the witcher, increasing in intensity as he glared at the assassin. His veins burned with the intensity of the hate he felt. It was not because he took the assassin's sadistic mannerisms into him, but it was a different reason altogether. The hate was within him, and it was caused by himself. He detested the boy. For the little girl, he could not kill the feeling in himself. It shocked and appalled him.

Like a stampeding bull, he raced across the cavern toward the assassin. His aggressive growl echoed in the high chamber as he charged forth. As the side of his nose quivered, he snarled.

The assassin's arrogance worked against him. Suddenly, his eyes went wide in surprise. In fact, the witcher could guess what the boy thought. Geralt had taken a wound that would render most other men passive; he should be dying. Yet, his admission brought such anger from the witcher. It made the witcher ignore the pain that was not being masked by the elixir. Instead of being the only words a dying man would hear, it sent the White Wolf charging down at him full bore and unleashing a growl that would rival the largest barghest.

Immediately, the assassin plucked a dagger from his belt. He did not take time and aim. The witcher could see the terror in the boy's eyes. It saturated the air as the teenager did not know how to prepare for a fully enraged witcher. No one ever taught him to deal with the fear. Suddenly, he let the dagger fly at the charging witcher.

The weapon screamed on its path to Geralt. It glinted in the darkness, sparking with the assassin's anger, fear, and pain. He his blade, batting the dagger away as if he was swatting away a troublesome gnat.

Once more, the boy flung a dagger. Geralt only parried it again. The weapon was sent flying into the air on a collision course neither the assassin or witcher could have foresaw. It landed with a dull thunk in the forehead of one of the bruxa's followers. Immediately, the man slumped in the crowd.

Yet, the white haired witcher did not care. There was only two things he could see. The first was the girl behind the assassin. He knew he had to get to her and protect her from what had happened to her. It would never happen to her again. Geralt would see to that. His teeth ground together in his anger.

The second was the human assassin. He was not even worthy of being called human. No compassion existed inside of Geralt for the boy. In a way, the agent of the Arcani was worse than his mistress. As the witcher bore down on the cause of his rage, he did not regret what was going to happen to the young life. Because the assassin had taken something that did not belong to him, he was worse than some of the other monsters the witcher had killed. It did not matter, he was almost upon the assassin.

Reacting quickly, he raised his sword to block Geralt's strike. Immediately, the witcher's steel sword crashed down into his raised blade. His sword shook before shattering on impact as Geralt's blade continued downward. When the blade struck him on the shoulder and at the base of his neck, the boy's lips open in a piercing wail. Even then, it did not stop the blade's decent. It cut though meat and bone, sending gore to fly onto the witcher. The angle of the cut, along with the power behind it, severed his head and right arm in one bloody chunk. Pieces of his body dropped to the floor with twin thuds, sending blood onto Laelithra behind him and spilling viscera across the floor.

Geralt watched the little girl's body shake against the ropes. Her eyes focused solely on the two pieces of split flesh on the floor. The assassin's body was close enough for her to see it in the dark. She did not acknowledge the witcher's presence. There was no way she could have. She gaped like a fish, opening and closing her mouth. Tears streaked down her face, showing the pale flesh underneath the blood and gore.

He did not move closer to her. The White Wolf did not forget the true enemy, their Mistress. He was so close to freeing the girl. Then, they would leave this cult behind forever. He clenched his jaw, staring at the vampire.

Jhaer did not move towards them. She tapped her clawed fingernails against her thigh. Tiny spots of blood dotted the flesh. On her other hand, she rested her chin. Geralt knew the creature was taking her time. It was then that the entire kidnapping started to make sense. The White Wolf would make her pay for capturing the tiny girl and subjecting the child to such grueling torture.

The little girl's sniffling had ceased. "Release me, Geralt," she whispered, quietly. The flesh of her face shone through in her tear tracks. Despite the viscera that hung on her, she had an angelic quality to her. Laelithra had adapted well to sights such as these. She hung her head to her chest once more. "Please. It hurts."

Geralt stood before the child and narrowed his eyes. Her tiny arms shook with the fatigue her body was experiencing. The witcher did not know if he could cut the rope smoothly without hurting the small child. "Stay still, Laelithra," he growled, gruffly. Immediately, the witcher his steel sword above his head.

As best as she was able to, the young girl held still. Her eyes focused on Geralt's in the darkness. Laelithra tucked her head down again, making her hair mold to her face. She did not wiggle her fingers or hands. Instead, she shut her eyes tightly.

Suddenly, Geralt swung his steel sword. The weapon flashed brilliantly in the darkness, sparking ivory where it hit the cold rock of the throne. He knew the embers of the impact touched and burned the little girl's wrists, but she did not cry out to her credit.

When the rope was severed, Laelithra dropped to the floor and caught herself with her hands. Once more, Geralt expected the girl to have cried out. Instead, she breathed out softly, exhaling from her ordeal. He could not see the look in her eyes as she stared at the floor. She coughed, breathing in the stuffy air.

The silence that followed was broken by the clear sound of hands clapping. It was slow and deliberate as fingernails scraped against the side of a palm.

Geralt turned to see Jhaer standing close behind him, bringing her hands together in exaggerated movements. The sides of her palms ran red with blood from her long, sharp fingernails. Although she presented herself to be a lady, the vampire could not change who she was. A creature does not change its habits on the spur of the moment. No matter how much the Mistress of the Arcani posed to be a lady of refinery, she was still a vampire. Her clear eyes met Geralt's golden gaze.

As Geralt gazed at her, his eyes blazed orange as if there was a light within him. He scoured her malice, feeding the creature's hatred into his own soul. The witcher did not look away. Instead, he stood before the otherworldly woman and blocked her view of Laelithra, towering over the small child.

_Such a valiant display, _her voice cooed without her lips moving. Geralt felt like he was cast in a sea. The voice seemed to echo all around him, flooding his thoughts. Yet, she was arrogant, and she could not see her own demise. _He was the eldest of my special assassins, and you defeated him handily. Impressive, witcher. One more time, I will offer you the chance to join us. Help us. Train her and the others. I can give you wealth beyond measure, an endless supply of women for your tastes, and anything else your heart can desire. All you would have to do is join me, Geralt. Do not be foolish. There's no sense in rotting in this hole in the ground. Regardless of what you decide, the girl will be mine, and her destiny will be fulfill._

His teeth clenched again. Geralt of Rivia pulled himself up to his full height. Yet, the motion caused more blood to spill from the wound in his side. His shoulder started to throb. The potion was leaving his body. Yet, he could not allow the bruxa to see any of this. His eyes glowed with the intensity of the emotions he was experiencing. It was as if he was taking the blackest malice, from the deepest, darkest corners of her cold heart. Pure evil. He made that his own, letting it consume his own mind.

The bruxa backed away, reading his gaze. She seemed to shrink against the background, unused to this type of _intimacy_ with another. All of her wickedness was returned to her tenfold by those molten, golden eyes. She could not think straight. All she could do is shiver deep within her icy heart.

As the luminescence of his gaze reached a crescendo, Geralt growled low and guttural. He became like an animal, bristling with hatred. "Never," he snarled, gruffly.

Once more, the bruxa took a step back. In face of her own hatred, the creature nearly buckled and ran. Yet, Jhaer was stubborn. While Geralt could read the fear in her body, the slender woman would not show it. Her eyes narrowed. _Enough. I have seen what I wanted to see._

Still, Geralt's fierce glare pierced the Bruxa at her core. As Geralt snarled primordially, he knew she had not been prepared for this move. The vileness of the creature ate at the White Wolf's core, making him shudder on the inside. There were few monsters that bore that level of hatred inside of them. Jhaer was like an inferno of those feelings, burning out of control.

The bruxa's will wavered in the face of her own malice. Geralt magnified and concentrated on her centrally, cloaking her in it. For a moment, the fear was written on her face. Her eyes widened, and her bloodstained breasts and fell rapidly. Every one of her minions back a few paces away, even though his glare did not move from their mistress. Anything that instilled doubt and fear in her was nothing they wanted any part of.

He still stood between the girl and the bruxa, protecting Laelithra from the gaze of the vampire. Geralt would try to kill the creature if she took a step closer. There was no doubt in his mind about who needed to die here.

_Take the girl. _She moved away from Geralt, her hand delicately in the air, and signaled one of the Arcani sorceresses nearby. Reaching out, she grabbed the little boy, Laelithra's twin, by the collar. _However, we will be taking the boy. He is of use to us now, more so than the girl._

The sorceress chanted, reciting a spell. Geralt's medallion shook as a blue light illuminated from the cavern, swirling with energy. He would not do anything now because the elixir was leaving his body in rapid succession. Yet, he continued to stare into the eyes of the bruxa. One by one, her minions filed through the hazy, blue light.

Immediately, the bruxa glided towards the portal. Her feet never touched the ground in the movement. Before reaching the light, she turned towards Geralt. _You will take her, and you will train her in your ways. You will make her like you. That is when we shall take her back. We shall never rest until we have her. And you, dear witcher, you and her love for you will turn her into what we wish. I can see it now. _

Geralt said nothing as he watched the creature stepped into the portal. The energy of it hummed, vibrating against the walls of the cavern. Slowly, the mists spun before it closed behind her with a blinding flash.

The conflict passed. Geralt breathed out, releasing the tension in his body and the hatred coursing through him. He gasped, falling to one knee. Finally, the potion had wore off. It left Geralt able to feel every wound he received. His head swarmed as he felt the effect of his blood loss. Yet, even then, he was concerned with the young child. He needed to summon the strength to save Laelithra and lead her through the various tunnels.

As the pain assaulted the witcher, he closed his eyes tightly. He had to focus to get both of them out of here. They could not go back the way he came. The chasm room blocked their escape that way. In fact, their only hope would be to go deeper into the hive of Arcani. There had to be another way out.

Yet, Geralt did not like the prospect of traveling through the rest of the cave without the effects of his elixirs. His head swam from toxicity and blood lost. He did not know what lay in the depths of the cave, and he was injured. If they came across anything threatening, he would defend Laelithra. It was a real possibility he would draw his last breath in this cave. The thought was not lost on the witcher.

He heard her cry out his name. At least, he thought it was the girl crying his name. Geralt opened his eyes, blinking the clinging mist away from them. Laelithra confused Geralt. The witcher never met someone with such devotion as the little girl showed to him in such a short amount of time. Was that the reason the girl was precious to him? Sighing, he doubt he would ever be able to understand the raw need to protect her that the girl inspired in him. It drove him to act foolishly at times. With her safe, his body could finally relax.

"Geralt, you're hurt," the words seemed to echo in the immense cavern. He did not know when she drifted towards him, but he felt her tiny hands pressing against the wound to his side. His blood covered her, adding more to the gory mess that was Laelithra.

With a grunt, Geralt stood up. His knees wobbled, threatening to collapse once again. Suddenly, he felt the small girl wind her arm around his waist. He knew his heavy body would end up hurting the girl. If there was no dire need to escape or bandage their wounds, the scene would have been comical. The top of her head came to the top of his waist. No one her age should possess her knowledge, he thought to himself.

As she pressed her small hands against the puncture on his abdomen, he placed his arm around her shoulder and drew her closer to him. He slumped over her, and tried not to put too much of his weight on the tiny girl. Once more, he summoned strength inside of himself to step forward, support the little girl as she supported him as best as she could.

With each painful step, both the witcher and girl drew painful breathes. Neither of them wished to show the other pain. Geralt wanted to lay down and die, such was the magnitude of the pain coursing through every fiber of his being. Were it not for the need to get Laelithra to safety, he may very well have. Dead in a hole, never found, soon forgotten. Such was the fate of a witcher.

He glanced down at the small girl, attempting to hold him upright. She bit her bloody lip with each painful step the two took. Geralt knew the pain coursing through her and understood the things that they done unto her, but she still summoned courage to go on. While his life would end t in some monster-infested cave, hers would not. It was not Laelithra's fate.

…...

Step by step, they moved weakly through the complex labyrinth of tunnels. The air seemed to suffocate the two of them, making it feel as if the walls were closing in on them. On the other side of the stone, they could hear a steady drip of water as it fell from the ceiling and plopped in the underground pools.

As they moved through the cavern, they traveled at a tediously slow pace. Their wounds were not the only reason for the delay in movement. This was a hive used by vampires. In several spots, viscera lay strewn about like decorations, the walls and floor festooned with thick gray tubes that writhed about like long earthworms. They slithered and shook from the stale air blowing through the cave. Blood coated the floor. In some spots, it caused the little girl to slip and lose her footing.

As Geralt looked down at her, he could not help but feel an apprehension. The grisly scene would have sent any number of children into a fit of abject terror. Instead, she stared forward and limped next to him. She was quiet, conserving her strength for their torturous march through the bowls of earth. Geralt could see sweat line her forehead as a quake fought to overtake her lips. She had to be in as much pain as he was, but she did not whine or cry. Like many other witcherlings, Viktor had stolen her childhood.

Geralt narrowed his eyes in the darkness at the thought of the other witcher. The last time a child had been mutated was before the assault on Kaer Morhen. They lost the formulae, but it seemed that one of their own had stolen the ancient scripts from them. He shook his head, weakly. No, he had seen the boy. Her brother was fully mutated. The witcher knew that there was no question that Viktor had spirited them from Kaer Morhen. Viktor had mutated Laelithra's brother and the other assassin as well.

Immediately, a disturbing thought overcame the witcher. The bruxa had wanted him to train her other special initiates. Does that mean that there was others like the assassin and Leviticus? If so, how many did they have mutated? Would they have an army of those assassins, waiting for him as he and the girl emerged from the cave? Did he come all of this way to save the girl only to have her taken from him once more? He would die before he let that happen. His conviction to ensuring this tiny girl's safety was resolute, and yet he barely knew her.

Relief suddenly overtook over him as if it was a clear rain nourishing soil from a summer's drought. Viktor had not taken enough of herbs from Kaer Morhen to begin his own experiments on children. That was true. Yet, it wasn't that much. Vesemir would have notice a large supply missing. The other elder witcher wished to remain hidden with his plans that Geralt could not understand, yet. If they had been noticed missing inside of burned, the other witchers would have looked for them. There was not enough herbs he could have harvested to supply an entire force of those assassins and the twin children.

Once more, he stared in the darkness at Laelithra. She brought so many questions to his weary mind. What did Viktor plan to do with her? More importantly, what the hell was the elder witcher thinking? Witchers did not know anything about mutating a girl child. Their physiology was different from a male child. Geralt was sure that Viktor did not have a sorceress telling him to be careful of the elixirs because they could harmed the girl's womanly attributes. What possessed the elder witcher to try to think of giving the Trials to the girl?

He knew the answer as he took a painful step. Agony rushed up his side, bursting air like fire from his lungs. Geralt grunted again. During his time at Kaer Morhen, Viktor was ambiguous and ruthless to anyone who doubted his beliefs. Once before he left, the old man cut off an initiate's left middle finger because he could not get a simple pirouette right. The elder witcher was insistent for control over everything. It would be why Laelithra could not adapt like she should have been able too. Because of having one trainer, the little girl inherited Viktor's need for control.

Somehow, the bruxa Jhaer had sunken her claws in the other witcher. What did the creature promise the witcher for him to turn from his Path? Endless supplies of coin? Geralt did not remember Viktor being obsessed with money. In fact, he refused payment for his jobs if Laelithra's memory of the man was true.

Perhaps, an endless supply of women? While Viktor's libido did not rival Geralt's, the man was still a witcher. He had the urges every witcher had. The old man resisted those. Viktor always ridicule the other witcher's for their lustful nature. Jhaer had offered herself to Geralt, and it was no great leap to think that the vampire had offered herself to the aging witcher as well. Immediately, a shudder of disgust overtook the white haired witcher. Would Viktor have given into her, the witcher asked himself.

Geralt narrowed his eyes again. He hated the fact that he did not know what Viktor's plans were for the small girl. The white haired man dislike the fact that an organization of vampires were making their own witchers. No, they were not witchers. Witchers did not act like her assassins. They were no better than mutants, Geralt thought, angrily. In fact, the more he thought about the situation the more he disapproved. A sinking feeling settled deep within his stomach, mixing with the blazing hurt.

As they tried to keep in one direction and move in the direction he'd come, he placed his free hand on his medallion. The Wolf's head rested calmly against his chest and under his hand. Occasionally, it would vibrate. Yet, the witcher knew it was not vibrating through monsters. The central chamber was situated on top of an intersection. The further they traveled from the ley line, the calmer his medallion got. Yet, it was another question in the witcher's mind. Why did they bring the girl, leaving her in the middle of the intersection throughout her stay with the bruxa? What were they hoping to accomplish with Laelithra?

With her free hand, Laelithra felt the wall of the cave. Her other hand pressed into his side. Her wrists were raw. Blood had stopped trickling from the wound hours before, coagulating into an oozy red mass.

The witcher glanced over at the child again. Most importantly, he took in her condition. He knew Laelithra would bare the scars of her confinement both emotionally and physically. Even though she had been raised by a witcher, she was still a tiny child. She had been exposed to horrors that a woman could not fathom, and her tender age would make it harder for her mind to cope. Geralt did not know about women. Yet, he knew about death and tragedy. They followed behind him like faithful hounds, like a whirlwind wreaking havoc in his wake.

Immediately, the thought of her scarred angered him. This girl was his idea of a perfect child. She was trusting. The trust she bore others brought out the naivety in her. Instead of judging others with preconceived notions, she allowed them to make the first impression. While her innocence was the quality he adored in her, he could not allow her trusting nature to cause her harm. As much as he could, he would protect her from everything. Laelithra did not deserve what that assassin had done to her.

Laelithra lost her footing and stumbled, causing both herself and Geralt to jerk forward. She hissed in pain, smashing the air from her lungs. Using her hand to stop both of their descent, she touched the wall again. As the little girl used her strength to stop their fall, she grunted against the witcher.

As if responding to her touch, the ebony ooze covering the stone wall stretched towards her. Its stringy mass elongated into several thin lines as it raised like diminutive, twisting branches. Soon, the sludge covered her hand like black veins. Their tiny mouths extended, hooking onto the girl's flesh. Immediately, the slimy, leech-like creatures started to swell. Blackening and pulsating, the creatures sucked fiercely on her arm.

Laelithra gasped beside him, squeezing Geralt's side in pain of the creatures on her arm. She clutch onto him.

Once more, pain seared into the White Wolf's side. He clenched his teeth together, focusing on their surroundings and the cool touch of silver against his chest. Geralt needed to forget his pain and concentrate on getting the child to safety. Then, he would give into whatever Destiny had wished of the witcher.

"What is this stuff on the wall, Geralt?"

Geralt looked over at his companion. His eyes widened in surprise as he watched the ooze continue to grow on her arm.

The little creatures lacerated her skin viciously, engorging itself on the blood residing within the girl's hand. Their suctioning sounded through the cavern, blending with the abstract sound of the water. Again, the bloating creatures shimmered black with Laelithra's blood in their straining stomachs.

She grasped at his side again, reopening the witcher's wound. Other than her questions, Laelithra did not make any additional comments. In fact, Geralt noticed that she did not complain with the tiny monsters sucking on her arm. The witcher was sure it hurt the little girl, but it was like she could not feel the pain.

Could not feel the pain or taught to ignore it? He asked himself. Both options disturbed the witcher. From Laelithra's descriptions of her training, Viktor was brutal to her. Geralt was sure the elder witcher meant to place the young girl through the Trials. He died before he was able to, the witcher reminded himself.

Quickly, he reached over and grabbed one of the slimy creatures by its bloated body. With a shudder of pain, he it up to his eyes. The creature pulsated, and his medallion answered with a slight rhythmic vibration of its own. Yet, the vibration was almost too small to notice. A feeling of disgust entered him. He hurled the tiny beast to the ground.

It bounced on the ground, skidding to a stop before his silver tipped leather boots. As if seething from the persisting hatred from the bruxa, the small leech-like creature stretched it fat body towards the man's boot. Immediately, its mouth tried to shred the too.

Geralt kicked at it in revulsion. His jerkin slid over his wound, causing Laelithra's tiny fingers to touch the wound. He grunted as he willed the pain to leave him once more. Any slight movement affected the wound with scorching torture.

Once more, he felt the creature stretch for him. A determined little beast. It attempted to burrow into his boot and flesh.

Gripping the girl's shoulder for support, he raised his boot. Geralt brought it down, crushing the monster underneath the thick sole. A squishing pop came from underneath of his feet. Blood streamed from the small carcass of the animal. Laelithra's blood. It was a disturbing fact for the witcher. Once more, he was reminded that she did not deserve this.

Quickly, he plucked every single monstrosity from her arm with the exception of one. Smashed. Squished. Squirt. They all met a similar fate to the first

She stood still, letting Geralt pinch the little creatures before throwing them to the ground and smashing them underneath his boot.

"Reach into my pack, and retrieve one of those empty flasks," Geralt muttered. He had seen leeches before, but these creatures baffled him.

Immediately, she released his side and opened the satchel attached to his dark baldric. Her fingertips shifted through various body parts before brushing against the smooth glass surface of one of the vials.

After Laelithra removed the wooden cork, he plucked the final creature from her arm. It tried desperately to hold onto its meal. Spots of blood dotted the girl's arm as if she had been stuck with several thin bones. They were wounds that he did not have time have to dress.

Geralt could not relax. He dare not fool himself into thinking that the two were not in bad shape. Both could barely walk, clinging on to the other for support. Laelithra was his lifeline, and he was hers.

As soon as he sealed the cork again, he looked at the creature. It slammed itself into the sides, smearing a sticky clear substance that was mixed with blood. Immediately, he placed the flask into his satchel. Since he had never saw those types of monster before, he would study it later. If he survived, he reminded himself, grimly.

Next, he turned to the small girl, reached out,and gripped her shoulder. His strong, fingers bit into her flesh. Both came to a halt in the tunnel. He turned her to face him in his iron grip embrace. With his face mere inches from her won, he peered at her in the darkness. "Don't touch _anything_," he growled. "Stay away from the walls."

"I can't see," she whimpered beside of him, and terror shook her voice. Geralt could see her lower lip quiver in the darkness. To her credit, the witcher did not scold her very often. It usually consisted of warning her not to swear. Yet, he did lecture her quite a bit. Of course, he would never tell anyone. It was because he cared about the small child. When he did scold her, he was very crass.

"It's alright. I can see in the dark."

He could tell by her body stance that his words did not comfort her. It was not enough for him to be able to see where they were going, but she was blinded. Suddenly, it occurred to him that maybe this was the first time she had to rely on someone else.

Without saying a word, he pulled her close to him. He could feel her tiny frame press into his side, and he wrapped his arms around her shoulder. Although his demeanor seemed to suggest otherwise, Geralt made sure one of her hands were touching him. "Stay close to me. Keep your hand on me, move with me, and nothing will happen to you. You have to trust me, Laelithra. You might be scared, but you can cry later. Right now, you have to be aware, pay attention, and trust me." The words sounded harsher than he intended them too. Yet, he did not have time to coddle the child, soothe her fears, and reassure her doubts. Whether she was frightened or not, they needed to move.

Also, It was a strange thing to have to ask the child to trust him. Laelithra was the only person Geralt thought he would not have to request that from. It perplexed him to why he cared about the child whom he barely knew in the first place. What was worse, it angered him that this organization, bruxa, and her minions damaged the little's outlook on life.

As if responding to him, the little girl squeezed his arm. He beat down the emotion, concentrating on the task at hand. After all, she shouldn't matter to him.

"Let's go."

The beasts waved on the walls like blades of black grass as they continued to move through the tunnel. Geralt wrapped his arm tighter around the child, protecting her from the reaching monsters. They seemed to be attracted to the child like flies to honey.

More poured from the ceiling, falling like droplets of rain. They landed with soft plops onto the witcher's and little girl's head. The fat beasts bit, feeling like tiny needles pricking his skin. He cursed silently, looking at the tiny girl. While he could regenerate these tiny, bothersome wounds, he was concerned with his companion. She did not have his accelerated metabolism.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, he placed his arms under her back and legs. Lifting her, Geralt snuggled her to his chest. The added weight trailed blood from the wound, oozing over his jerkin. Painful step by painful step, he urged himself forward. The air threatened to leave his lungs on numerous occasions. One thought drove him onward. Her safety.

Laelithra looked weakly up at him, shallowly breathing. She was starting to weaken. Geralt could see it in her gaze, asking questions that her mouth would not utter. Her body lay limply in his powerful arms. The witcher would need to find herbs to help her once they were outside. It would take some time searching because the herbs could not be toxic for her.

Sadly, he knew he did not have time to worry about himself. The realization made him troubled. He would simply _have_ to last until he got Laelithra to safety. Then, he imagined, he would die. Someone would help the child, but they would avoid helping a witcher. It was what it was, and the witcher did not think much of it.

He started to sprint, feeling the urgency of the little girl weakening in his arms. The creatures continued to drop on his head, sticking to his neck and shirt They sucked at him as he slumped over Laelithra. Geralt would protect her from these, also.

The little girl reached up, brushing the creatures off of him. They fell to the floor, ricocheting a few steps before them. Simultaneously, the tread of Geralt's boots shattered their plump bodies and squished out more blood.

After what seemed like hours, they skirted around the chasm with their circuitous route, coming out the other side. In his sprint, they journeyed quicker than if the little girl was walking beside him. The air was stiffening around them, threatening to suffocate both the witcher and small child.

Finally, they emerged into sunlight. Geralt blinked slowly, letting his eyes adjusted to the sudden explosion of blinding light. A cool breeze met them and caressed them as soon as they stepped out of the gaping maw of the earth.

In the light, he could see the extent of his wound. It had finally congealed, and blood no longer spilled from it. The dagger had punch deeply into his side, showing bright red meat underneath. With each breath, pain ignited like a burning fire. Geralt wanted to meditate, but he knew he could not. Both Laelithra and himself were weakening. He had no horse. It was going to be a long walk before they could rest. Stopping to rest for but a moment would be the end of them both.

…...

A warm breeze surrounded them, embracing them, caressing their oozing wounds with silent tendrils. Water pushed up from the ground beneath Geralt's feet, forced up by the pressure of his steps. Every so often, the breeze picked up high over their head, and the branches over them swayed like men bowing in deference, dropping their burden of rainwater like fat tears. It plastered his hair to his neck and forehead and beaded on his exposed flesh and leather jerkin.

Whether the wound was healing or not remained to be seen. In fact, the pain was such a constant for him now that he did not feel it. It permeated Geralt, becoming a part of him. He would ignore it until he could not anymore. The witcher trained his body for such an event. Being able to phase out the pain was a boon. Yet, the agony would ignite suddenly, dulling his thoughts and limiting his ability to focus on anything else. Geralt wanted to sit and meditate.

He gazed down at the little girl in his arms. Her skin paled, giving her a pallid complexion. Geralt could not see her face as it rested against his shoulder. Laelithra's cheek pressed into the strap of the leather baldric crisscrossing his chest. The witcher could feel her breath on the exposed skin of his chest. She panted softly, each breath saturated with the grievous pain of her injuries. If Geralt was not a witcher, he would not have been able to discern it from normal breathing.

The witcher began to wonder at the reason for her breathing that way. It was almost as if she did not want anyone to know of her injuries. Once more, he wondered if Viktor was especially hard on the young girl. However, Geralt knew there was other reasons why she might act like that. Laelithra was on her own before he stumbled on her. Anything could have happened to the girl. Being injured was a weakness she strove to avoid, and strained to hide.

Again, the leaves released their water, pouring crystal torrents down onto Geralt and Laelithra. The liquid followed the curve of the little girl's cheek in rivulets and dripped off of her chin. It lost its way in Geralt's hoary chest hair, matting it to his skin. As best he could, he sheltered her small frame from the droplets of water. He raised his hand and placed it on the back of the little girl's head.

Onward, they limped into the forest of tall, leafy trees and round pine trees. As they traveled deeper into the forest, the scent of pine surrounding them, reminding the witcher of mary. Pine trees towered above them, casting them in an eternal darkness. Deep in the forest, the rain had not penetrated. His shuffling steps crunched on the blanket of pine cones and needles.

As he walked, the witcher found that the wound on his side had stopped throbbing. It felt as if the

injury had not happened. Geralt wondered if perhaps this was a dream. Maybe, there was no Laelithra or Arcani. There were times when he conjured strange things in his sleep. Was this one of them?

Laelithra pressed closer to him. He could feel the heat of her small body cradled against his chest. Once more, he felt her hot breath against his skin. Raising her hand, she gripped the ends of his canescent hair. The odds of his mind conjuring her were slimmer than rolling five sixes in dice poker.

Everything felt startlingly real to him. The light weight of the child in his arms, the feel of pine cones popping beneath his boots, and the blistering wind relentlessly searing his flesh banished any thought that he was dreaming. He knew the truth as he held the child in his arms. She was real, and he did not imagine her.

After all, Geralt knew better than to hope. Hope in that chaotic world did not exist. To foolishly wish for something was to experience a bigger disappointment. If he did not believe the child was real, then she could very well die. The witcher clenched his teeth together, glaring coldly into the distance. He would not have her death on his hands. Geralt would keep his promise.

"Geralt?" she asked. Her voice came out muffled by the leather of his baldric.

A rustle sounded from his left, echoing in the pile of pine needles. To the tired witcher, it seemed to surround him. It seemed like monsters were attracted to her like dwarfs were attracted to ale. If she stayed with him, he probably could retire from the amount of creatures seeking to end the young girl's life.

Of course, it was a humorous thought to Geralt. He could not settle down because it was not in his blood to do so. A witcher did not die in a bed, old an toothless, in a warm home, surrounding himself with friends and family. Fangs, claws, and poisonous talons in some foul pit, that was the fate of every witcher he had known.

According to Laelithra, Viktor had met a similar fate. Monsters. By the Wolf's head medallion Geralt rifled off of the assassin's body, it was a different type of monster all together. Two mutated boys and a little girl that was started on the Diet. What the hell was Viktor trying to accomplish, he asked himself again. Geralt did not need a reason. He knew the elder witcher's dealings with the bruxa Jhaer had sent the other to his doom. The witcher hoped the small girl had stopped ingesting the herbs enough for it to not interfere with her development. Immediately, he frowned. She was too strong and agile for her age.

"What was that noise, Geralt?" she asked. He could hear the fear creeping into her voice. The witcher knew the little girl was scared. Laelithra had endured too much in the short time he had known her to not be fearful.

Geralt stopped, facing the pile of needles. Once more, the rustling came and grew in intensity. He hoped it was nothing, due to his injured condition. In his current condition, the witcher knew he would not survive another encounter with any member of the Arcani. He cursed himself, regretting how arrogantly he handled the fight with the boy. When he thought back to the battle, he knew the blade got him because of his own foolishness.

The child whimpered against him.

"Shh," he demanded, coldly. He needed the child to be quiet for but a moment. What Geralt needed more than that was a plan. The witcher did not have any horse to carry Laelithra away. She relied on him.

The rustling seemed never to reach a crescendo to the witcher. It increased in frequency as if it was a creature trying to shake water off its coat. A grim thought entered his mind. Actually, it sounded like jaws crunching on bone. Cracking echoed around him, sending the gruesome laughter around their immediate proximity.

Geralt felt his body tense with anticipation. His body wound tightly together like a coiled snake. After the elixirs and the euphoria of battle passed, he found himself able to unwind. It was a give and take system, leaving the witcher tired. He wanted to meditate. In fact, his blood lost screamed for him to sleep. The witcher quieted both his breathing and the little girl.

Again, the noise came. It grew louder as the pine needles seethed with the movement.

He narrowed his eyes, staring intently at the pile. What were his options? The witcher did not know. Laelithra could barely walk. Her confinement had taken its toll. Where would she go? She did not know this area any better than the witcher. Geralt was frustrated as he tried to formulate a plan that would keep the little girl alive. He knew she counted on him.

As the rustling crested, a blur of claws, fangs, and fur rushed passed him. The pocket of pine needles and cones burst, spraying in the air in every direction. Some showered down on the witcher and his companion.

Adrenaline surged in Geralt, rushing in his veins like the elixir had previously. His eyes narrowed once more as his breath come out in short pants, resembling his namesake. If he had been alone or the girl not injured, the White Wolf would not have had any qualms facing another opponent so soon.

Immediately, his lean muscles rippled in anticipation. He knew he could not take any more elixirs as the toxicity in his body was elevated to a dangerous level. A witcher without his potions was a dead witcher; he understood this. Geralt felt his heart pound in his chest as if it were trying to leave him. As he stood there, his muscles continued to flex. Inside, he felt extremely tired. It pained him to move, urging him to lay down and sleep the weariness away. The witcher needed to rest. Feeling like a drunken fool, he knew he could only deny his body rest so long before it collapsed under the strain. Where would that leave Laelithra? Seeing to her safety drove him forward, steeling his own resolve.

No heat or cold came over them this deep within the acheronian pine forest because the Arcani sorceresses had used this area to develop and hone their magick. The stagnant air around the little girl and witcher suffocated them like they were in a mass tomb being buried alive. In fact, the deathly feel could only be attributed to the numerous piles of pine needles, cones, and thick grass blanketing the area.

The blur of fur and teeth sprinted between his spread legs, brushing against his leather boots. When it was a few feet from the witcher, it stopped. Immediately, it turned back towards them. Standing on the very tip of its toes, the sable fur exploded around it, making the tiny animal appear to be a powder puff. Even though the fur was as dark as the blackest night, Geralt could see the dusky stripes on the creature's coat. Its triangular ears flattened against the top of its head.

Grimly, the witcher chuckled once, sounding like a short burst of air was ripped from him. He was relieved the only one with him was the girl. Although the residue chemicals from the elixir continued to hindered his senses, he was still startled by a small cat. A tiny, harmless cat.

The cat's golden eyes followed Geralt's slight sway. It's primal growl echoed like it thought it was a leshy. Of course, the creature's body was too small, and it was hunting on the ground instead of in the branches of trees. As its growl grew in intensity, it opened its mouth wide, hackles raised, and showed its small fangs to the witcher. At the same time, the animal hissed loudly, making the little girl in his arms flinch.

The White Wolf was not impressed. He started to walk again, leaving the furious cat behind him. After they were a few steps ahead, he heard more pine needles rustle behind him as the creature darted off.

"I'm cold, hungry, thirsty, and tired."

He stopped, finally. Even though he was not a medic, Geralt knew that being cold was a bad sign. It would mean she was slipping into shock. The witcher understood the urgency he had to act with now. Laelithra needed herbs and other things in the forest around them that would help him treat her more serious wounds. She needed food as well, to help recover from the blood loss she experienced under the hands of the Arcani.

At the same time, his mind questioned him on his own survival. He did not want to think about his own blood loss. He feared he needed White Rafford's, but the assassin had seen to dumping most of his possessions that were on the Roach in the stream surrounding their old campsite. It included his potion chest. Even if he had the elixir, he could not take it without rest. The toxicity would push his body over the edge, and he was sure he would slip into a coma.

Geralt set the girl down on the springy mat of old needles that covered the ground everywhere beneath the trees of the pine forest. He looked around, surveying his left and right. There was not much undergrowth in the darkness beneath the canopy of the ancient pines high above. For a brief moment, he thought about going back for the cat. While the girl might have objected, the witcher was not above eating the animal for survival. Traveling with him, she might learn some things a person would not normally do he would if it meant his death.

She did not move or say anything.

"I am going to find something to eat," Geralt said, "and I'm going to look for things to treat your injuries."

Suddenly, a wildness entered her dark gaze. It was written on her face, but he ignored it.

He knelt down before her. The leather creaked in protest. Geralt looked Laelithra squarely in the eyes and fixed her with a darkly forbidding look. To her credit, she did not shrink away or attempt to look elsewhere. Most often did when the witcher stared at them like he did the small girl. More of Viktor's torture, he thought to himself. "Don't go to sleep. I mean it. You must stay awake, or I will be very angry with you."

"I want to go with you. I can help. I helped Father all the time."

"I need you to stay here and rest, Laelithra," Geralt insisted. While he was injured, he could still function. Laelithra would be a distraction. She already proved to be one more than once already, causing him to act foolhardy on many occasions. What was it about this girl, he wondered again. "You are small, and at more risk from your wounds than I am."

Laelithra's terrified eyes widened, sparkling with wetness as if a flood hid behind her gaze. Her bottom lip started to quiver. She a shaky hand, swiping it through her matted hair. "I don't want to be alone."

Reaching down, he removed a stiletto from his left boot. The straight, narrow blade gleamed, illuminated the narrow groves running along the length of the metal. He turned it in his hand and presented the hilt to the small girl. "Here."

"I don't know how to use this."

It never occurred to Geralt that Viktor only trained her in the use of the witcher swords. On more than one occasion, he realized the hindrance of having only one trainer. Why would he limit the use of weapons to her? Although it was a rarity, there was times when another weapon was more useful than a silver or steel witcher sword. It was rare, but there _were_ times.

She continued to stare at him patiently.

"If anyone comes along, I don't care who, stick this in their side, here," he explained. At the same time, he pointed at his own side, directly where the assassin had stabbed him, incidentally. If he weren't a witcher, he would have been dead in the room with Jhaer. She had been training those few mutants well. The pain of being stabbed there was nearly enough to disable him. Were it not for the raw fear and need coursing through the tiny girl's eyes, the agony might have.

She clutched the dagger to her small chest.

"Don't hesitate, Laelithra" he reminded her. Geralt did not care who stumbled on the child. She needed to protect herself. He wondered what kind of people would be traveling under the primordial canopy. Of course, he knew there would only be one. Arcani. The witcher did not risk his life in the cave to have her captured once more.

"Be careful, Geralt."

The corner of his lip turned up in a smile. It disturbed him how much the little girl had come to rely on him. Yet, he had come to care about Laelithra, also. He would not show those emotions. "I won't be long."

Immediately, he turned from her and hobbled off through the trees, in search of herbs and, hopefully, dinner.


	11. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

The stagnant air enveloped him, permeating his flesh and clinging to his bones. It was the type of stillness that accompanied one when they were intensely focused on the task at hand. For the witcher, it was no different. Sweat dotted his brow, clustering in his thick eyebrows. A tree could have fallen behind him, and he would have ignored it in his focus.

He leaned forward, centering his golden gaze on the light green plant. It's long, slender leaves shot upright like tiny needles. They twisted, bending over each other in their attempt to get the witcher's attention. Each blade tumbled on itself. Some of the hoary fibers twisted in their endless silent dance. Others spiraled downward, touching their tips to the spongy ground.

Herbalism, more specifically plants and flora used in his witcher elixirs and medicines, was one thing Geralt knew well. He did not know any of his kind who did not know their lore as well. A witcher without his potions was a dead witcher. The facts were easy to understand, simple, and, unfortunately, true.

Even though the five year old girl was not a witcher, she understood that simple fact as well. Partly, it had to do with her father. Geralt did not know to what degree Viktor had taught the small child herbalism. There were times when she would reveal to Geralt that the elder witcher would force her to ingest tiny amounts of plants. She stated she felt very sick afterward, vomiting her small supper in the weeds. Laelithra thought she was a sickly child, but the witcher knew the real reason. The reason sank deeply into his gut, twisted like the stiletto he had given her, and made the long buried emotions cut him like tiny shards of broken glass.

Of course, there was really only one reason why the bastard would force that upon the small girl. Even though the evidence seemed to pile up against Viktor, the White Wolf had trouble believing one of his kin would do what the elder witcher did to the small child. Even though Viktor was unstable at Kaer Morhen, Geralt could not understand how he used his Child of Destiny as nothing better than a rat to experiment on. Was that all the young girl was to the elder witcher? She was an experiment. The old man would study her, documenting the changes to her immune system and the reactions her tiny body had to the process.

While they made elixirs, they were not alchemists. While they mutated boys, they were not scientists. A witcher did not preform experiments on a girl child, knowing what could happen. They were witchers. This too was a simple, easy fact to understand. Viktor had ceased being a witcher when he fed the first fern to the girl.

Then what was Viktor, he asked himself. The elder witcher was no better than any of the monsters that Geralt had slain. He was a creature of evil, and the witcher knew that deep down inside. Yet, how could he think that the old man had any plans other than to kill monsters for coin? It was what a witcher did.

Yet, it did not surprised Geralt. Many things about the Viktor were unorthodox. Other things did not fit. Geralt hated situations where the pieces did not meld right. It was like a prostitute with syphilis. Even though he could not contract it, he stayed away from situations like that as much as possible. He wanted to find Viktor and bring forth the truth from the aging witcher. Circumstance and time, like with most people, robbed him of the opportunity. It was unlikely that the young girl knew what the other witcher was planning. To her, Viktor was a father and was reacting as a father would. No one who cared about their child of destiny would think to subject them to the experiments he did. To think anything else was folly. The whole situation with Laelithra left a bitter taste in his mouth, like the morning after a night of spent drinking.

Geralt narrowed his eyes as his hand brushed the leaves of the plant. His mouth curled into a sneer. White teeth sparkled as his thin lips pulled away from the gums. He looked down at the the flora, and his nostrils flared. Ivory heat was buried in his cold gaze. As much as his skin could through his lack of pigment, his cheeks flushed.

In the back of his mind, he knew he had to tell the other witchers about what he found. There was no other way around it. Even though he tried to deny it, the pain dulled his thoughts and made the truth startlingly clear. Someone, possibly Viktor, was creating their own version of mutants. There were three things that proved his theory: Laelithra, the assassin, and her brother. The boy and the teenage assassin were fully mutated. What was the purpose of this cult, and what was the other witcher up to?

He knew that the reasons behind mutating others could not be good because Viktor had stolen the mutagens and the formulae. The elder witcher worked in secret, allowing his kinsmen to think that he had died in the massacre. If Geralt did not come across Laelithra, he would never have known the truth about Viktor and his plans. What were his plans? His mind screamed at him, the thoughts threatening to consume him.

Of course, the plans and the thoughts were moot. It was still early summer, and the heat seemed to crush down on him. The only one who would be in Kaer Morhen during the Working Season would be the old man. Vesemir rarely left the witchers' settlement those days. Geralt did not know the reason. Perhaps, the elder witcher was tired of the world. Coen, Eskel, and Lambert were traveling the countryside, making their own coin in preparation for the winter coming.

Geralt knew the urgency of telling the other witchers about the organization of vampires and young boys. They even needed to hear about the little girl. Yet, he had no intention of bringing the girl to Kaer Morhen. In fact, he was going to make sure she had as much of a normal life as possible. He did not know how much of the ferns, mosses, and mushrooms that she had ingested during her time with Viktor. Could she have any semblance of a normal life?

It was a disputable point, nagging at him like an overweight harlot after his coins. At the earliest, he would not be able to return to Kaer Morhen until September or early October. Much could happen in a few months. In the mean time, he would press the tiny girl for details about Viktor and his herbal meals. Geralt of Rivia would find out the purpose behind this cult and the renegade witcher. He was determined.

All of that would matter if they would survive. The witcher never fooled himself in regards to Laelithra's and his own injuries. They both were in bad shape. Geralt had a clue what the assassin had done to the small girl, but he pushed it out of his mind. She could hardly walk, forcing the White Wolf to carry her. He limped, taking on the extra weight of the girl. Of course, he knew the situation was bad. While it was not the worst he had been in, it came close. In the back of his mind, he could not ignore that the dire need of medicine and rest that his body desperately craved did not exist. The White Wolf pushed himself forward, denying himself the sweet succor of rest.

A hiss escaped from his lungs, forcing its way up through his body, and bursting from within his lips. The low throbbing pain conspired with the doubts in his mind, bringing them to the fore. It twisted, crawling beneath his skin. Once more, the urgent need to meditate came over him. His mind slowed as a hint of agony overcame him. It was sharp, sudden, and brought on by the doubts floating through his thoughts.

Immediately, he stood and moved onto a small aloe plant. Squatting over the foliage, the witcher inhaled deeply. The smell was not as strong. Its tiny leaves twisted and jetted upwards towards the sky like a child wishing to be cradled. With the other herbs he found, it would be enough to treat Laelithra's wounds. He knew the importance of treating the blood loss. In the back of his mind, he knew that the dirty conditions of the Arcani's lair increased the risk of infection, spreading it through her system like a rotting, festering wild fire. Once it entered her, it would be impossible to control.

For one of the first (and certainly, not the last) times, he realized the weakness that Laelithra pulled forth from him. It seethed within him, bubbling in the slippery oils of concern and distress. She could die from her wounds. The realization burrowed deep within him. As the feelings clung to him closely, he blinked slowly. Because he was stubborn like an ox, he refused to let the girl perish while she was in his care. Through his sheer willpower alone, she would survive. Geralt was as sure of that simple fact as he was sure of his swordsmanship. Yes, Geralt of Rivia would make sure of it. There would be no dispute on that matter. None at all.

With his outstretched hands, he snapped off several blades from the bottom of the plant. The sound bit in the air around him, sharp and crisp like the heavy, stone lid of a sarcophagus grating and screeching endlessly against the stark quietness of the night. He knew the seriousness of getting the herbs to Laelithra. As he created many of his own elixirs, Geralt understood what plants would be fatal to the small girl. She could not use the herbs that he used for most of his witchers' medicines. If her wounds did not kill her, the potions would. Aside from that, he had few herbs left in his pack. Most of it was stored in his small, elixir chest, and the assassin had seen to throwing that into the river along with most of his belongings. Much of the things that were stored on the Roach were irreplaceable. He felt a twinge of anger deep inside of him, spiraling up his body as if he was a lightning rod.

Each blade bled slightly, oozing a thick, clear liquid where the stem broke from the plant. It was this gel that he was after. If he had removed the leaves higher than he did, the plant would not have produced enough of the gelatinous liquid for Laelithra's wounds. Taking each leaf, he placed them in the pouch resting against his stomach.

With the Aloe Vera, mint, and other herbs he had collected, there might be enough for himself and the small girl. Relief washed over his body, becoming a boon in a turbulent sea of doubt and worry. He would see to the child first, however. Instead of being a slave to pain, Geralt was the master of his body. The witcher would drive himself forward for the safety of Laelithra if there was not enough plants for him to use for himself. There would be enough to treat her wounds and prevent any infection. Immediately, he stood.

Suddenly, his golden eyes caught a blurred, white movement. His gaze darted instantly to the source. Nothing escaped the attention of a witcher. The dark of the forest made no difference. For a moment, he wondered if it was the cat, returning to harass the man more.

A small animal darted across the narrow gap between the massive trunks of two trees to his left. The pine needles rustled with its movement, sending a dust of tree debris and dirt into the air. It attempted to cloud his vision, tricking him into thinking that something bigger than what was there wished for his blood. In fact, the forest, itself, felt strange and foreboding. Not all was as it seemed, and Geralt felt slow and sluggish. At once, he knew it was not just his wounds.

While it troubled him, he had more pressing concerns than the forest. The witcher bent down and retrieved a small dagger from the inside of his boot. This was smaller than the dagger he had given to Laelithra. Dappled light filtering through the canopy sparkled along the blade. Worn leather wrapped around the hilt like ratty clothing. With cat-like reflexes, he flung the dagger across the distance between the animal and himself.

The dagger screamed through the air, hurtling like a bird of prey towards the witcher's target. It picked up speed, howling with the urgency flowing through the witcher. With a dull thud and a sudden, shrill shriek, Geralt knew his aim was true. Every creature (animal, human, and even monster) made a death cry right before they died. It was during this time that their lives flashed before their eyes, allowing them to make peace with their impending death. Then, darkness took over. Judging by the abrupt ending of the shriek, the end came a few seconds after the dagger had stricken it.

Geralt turned and limped confidently across the distance of the gap. He knew what he would find, and he had no qualms about allowing fate to grant him food. The little girl and he both needed meat to overcome the blood loss.

A rabbit lay dead. Its body was pinned against the trunk of one of the trees. Raw, red meat contrasted the dagger piercing it through its chest. Blood trickled down the white fur of the creature, dripping in thin spots on the grassy floor. He always associated the sound of the crimson liquid dripping to the spout in a human made well.

Squatting again, he gripped the handle of the dagger. At first, the weapon did not want to be dislodged from the animal and tree. It would not give as Geralt wiggled it back and forth and up and down. Finally, he pulled hard on the hilt of the dagger. With a thin spray of blood, it released the creature into Geralt's waiting hands.

Once more, he stood. He clutched the rabbit around the neck and made his way back to where he had left the small child.

…...

The journey back to Laelithra was uneventful. Nothing snaked out of the mat of discarded needles. No beasts leaped out to greet him, not surprising him. Creatures were probably hidden within the surrounding forest, seeking respite from the oppressive environment. In fact, the hot, decaying air around him suffocated him, wrapping thick tendrils around his neck and squeezing the breath out of him before he could even draw it.

Geralt took long, measured strides as the fine, white hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. There was a sudden, urgent need in his stride. A part of him loathed leaving Laelithra like he did. Yet, it was something different. He felt as if his thoughts and emotions were rebelling against him. They resembled the gnarled, rotten branches of wood, twisting into unrecognizable shadows. Eclipsing his very thoughts, a mind-numbing calmness overtook him.

Even in such a wide space as was between the massive trunks of ancient trees, the sun was powerless to pierce the canopy of woven branches high above. It enveloped the forest and the witcher in a primeval darkness. A groaning wind seemed to come from all sides of the witcher, wailing its discontent of being invaded by the foreign man and child.

Something was alive in that forest, forcing the calmness and rage to intertwine within the witcher. It was an amorphous being because it was unable to be seen or heard. Yet, the ethereal presence could be felt. Immediately, the flesh on his forearms shuddered up in a wave of tiny bumps. Yes, it could be felt. The calmness washed over him like warm water from the bathhouse, slithering up his chest, and over his head. In the back of his mind, he could feel a savage malice come over him. The undertone of malevolence flowing through his mind was akin to a very old feeling in Geralt. While he felt a similar hatred in several of the creatures he had forged a macabre bond with, he had rarely felt that sort of hatred in his surroundings.

However, it was a normal forest overgrown with pines. There was nothing wrong with the crushing air. Geralt was injured, and most likely he was delirious. In his long life, he had witnessed many things that a magician could do. One could change an entire house seamlessly into a rolling field beneath blue skies. A sorceress could remove her clothing with just a snap of her fingers. One most certainly could **not** enchant an entire forest, bending and twisting it into their own vision. He was sure of that.

_But._

Thirty-six years ago, a collection of knights had come across the remains of nine elvish youngsters, male and female. All of them were ripped open from sternum to pelvis. Arms and legs were pulled from the sockets randomly, showing the round ivory bone in the torso of the man or woman. Several heads rolled on the grassy blanket. One of the heads was nailed to the trunk of a tree with two nine inch iron spikes driven through the its eyes. The ghastly white grimace greeted the venturing party, welcoming them to that particular part of the forest. All of their eyes, fingers, and round, pointed ears were removed, taken as trophies from the grisly scene. Also, one of the heads, a female, was unaccounted for.

Because only the elvish young were fertile, the event was one more nail into the coffin. Yet, humanity did not care. The elvish young were only there to cause trouble in the first place. Were they going to burn their crops? Steal the human's own children? Elves were always up to no good. As the knights gathered the bodies, they formed a circle. Thick, black smoke rose high through the canopy for many days following. Life in the neighboring village went on because none of their kinsmen were caught up in the gruesome killings. After all, they were just elves. Four days after the burning of the corpses, the alderman's daughter went outside to play in the overgrown garden by their home. Crows littered the ground and pecked at the eyeballs and fingers strewn around the garden like seeds. Rising from the ground like a thin, bony scarecrow, a woman's head was fastened to a long pole in the center of the rotting garden. Blood matted the blonde hair, turning the light strains to crimson. The round, pointed ears peeking through the gnarly strands of hair were unmistakable.

_But._

Five years later, a group of very young children of the same village wandered into the woods. On that side of the immense forest, there were few pine trees. They wished to play_ Knights and Elves_, thinking that the woods would give the _elvish_ children an advantage and their game would be more lifelike. Like most young, they thought they were invincible. Nothing horrible ever happened to children. Four went into the land overlooked by ancient, immense trees. None came out. Presently, their bodies were never found. It was said that their ghosts lure unsuspecting travelers to their death, dooming them, for eternity, to walk beneath the ever watchful ancient trees of the forest.

_But._

The disappearance of family members and children were higher here more than any other region in the world. Perhaps, the vanishings were even higher here than in Vizima. Children were the ones most likely to disappear. As with any other human villages, the townspeople tended to blame other creatures for their mistakes. When a man was unfaithful to his wife, a succubus seduced him. If a parent caused the death of a child, it was said a night hag had taken them away. Humanity could not take responsibility for their own actions.

There was something quite different in the town bordering this forest than any others. Yes, children went missing. While there was no doubt that a parent was responsible for some of the deaths, something seemed to pull the strings of the forest and control the actions of several residents. For every benevolent man, there was a darker father. Some of the missing children were murdered. Some, not all. The town, itself, was a boon for a witcher looking for work. On some occasions, the town would post a notice on sheepskin, nailing it to a large post in the middle of a cross-roads. A witcher could always make a few extra coin for the winter.

Yet, something had drastically changed in the town last season when the White Wolf ventured there looking for work. His medallion had been vibrating violently. In fact, it had almost leaped from his chest. The Roach refused to approach the town; Geralt was forced into coercing the beast forward with a quick sign. As he got closer to the town, the mare refused to go further, sign or no. He was positive that there would be coins to earn. When he walked into town, he was met with confusion. Despite the Roach refusing to venture into this town, the medallion leaping about wildly on its chain, and his surety for work, the townspeople met him with rocks. There was work to be had, but they threw stones at him. Geralt could still feel the stinging of the small projectiles as they bounced off of his jerkin, stung his neck, and cut a tiny sliver of flesh.

There was something off about the forest. Geralt knew it. However, it had nothing to do with sorceresses enchanting the forest. It was merely some sort of monster praying on the village. It made sense to the witcher for the creature to take children because children were weaker than adults. They made easier kills.

Geralt narrowed his eyes as he entered the clearing where he had left the girl. As he surveyed the scene, his heart leaped into his throat and made his breath catch. A chill penetrated him, prickling his skin like a thousand tiny knives. Suddenly, the tales of children disappearing and dying felt all too factual to the witcher. Too real.

Laelithra lay on her side, curled up on the mat of browned pine needles that covered the ground like a thick carpet. Several small, twisted branches poked her at bare stomach, coming mere inches from the wound the vampire had caused. A blanket of white gold swept across her face, hiding her eyes, and caressing her cheek.

Suddenly, his breath rushed out of his lungs in a thick burst of air. He had been around enough death to be able to recognize when someone had passed on. Everything he went through for her was for naught. Geralt knew that now. A low grumble forced its way past the lump in his throat, coming out in a grinding, quiet squeak.

As if he was in a dream, he strode towards the tiny corpse of the young girl. Everything he knew about Laelithra came rushing back to him. She was the only one who never treated him like he was different. To Laelithra, he was not a mutant, a vagabond, or brigand. He was simply Geralt.

The knowledge that he had failed her hit Geralt hard. Many others depended on him. Why was this one girl, whom he did not know more than a few months, so important to him? Her death cut him deeply, twisting inside of him like an assassin's blade. He pushed the emotions down. They burned as he swallowed them like many goblets of a particularly aged rye. Of course, the feelings were as much a hindrance to him as a good drink was, also. Laelithra's welfare, often, got in the way, forcing him to act in ways that were unbecoming of the witcher.

He scowled, drawing his thin lips downwards. His nostrils flared with each breath he took. The tufts of air burst forth from his snarling lips rapidly. Like amber ore, his eyes glittered in the darkened forest, glinting against the blackness. Immediately, he felt the dread creeping up his body, oozing and bubbling over his flesh. Like tiny rocks, his nipples hardened, brushing roughly against the cloth of his undershirt.

Geralt approached the prone child, slowly. He placed the rabbit on a rock beside a tree. It was not the safest place for the carcass, but the man was in an unfamiliar state. His body felt cold and numb like he was a being returning to life after a millennium of fathomless sleep. The witcher could not think or react. In fact, he could not tear his gaze from the prone girl. As if her body was a siren, it called to him. It was too late for the Laelithra.

As he moved forward, he slowly pulled on the fingers of his right glove. He would have to find some way to bury her, the witcher thought. Yet, it pained him to think of such things. Death was a constant for Geralt. It was for any witcher. Chaos followed behind them like the wake of a storm. Yet, it bothered him to think of the little girl's fate.

Squatting over the small child, he took in the side of her pale, colorless face. Painfully, Geralt remembered how the cherub would be so full of life when he would explain something she could never fathom. If he had arrived sooner, she would not have been endangered for too long. The Arcani had treated the girl like an animal, keeping her chained and amusing themselves with her. His eyes flamed with rage. They would pay for everything they had done to her. He would make sure of it, himself.

Reaching down, he brushed her hair off of her face, revealing her closed eyes. The flesh felt slightly cool to his touch. She must have just passed on, he thought to himself. Her cooling flesh was not the only thing that alerted the witcher of the small girl's condition. Even though his touch sent shivers through the skin of people, penetrating deep with them, the little child remained still. Laelithra's lips chafed, and tiny pieces of skin flaked off.

Then, he saw it. Irritation replaced the other feeling that was coursing in his veins. Her chest rose and fell slightly. It would have been unnoticeable to any eyes but his. Nothing could escape his attention. This was no different.

Geralt furrowed his brow, gazing at her prostrate form. He took his strong hands and wrapped it around her exposed shoulder like a vise, shaking her roughly. He did not care that he woke her because he had told her to not fall asleep. She was hurting, and he understood that. At the same time, he knew the dangers of her falling asleep. Coupled with that, she had made him feel things that he was uncomfortable with; concern and fear. "I told you not to sleep," he said, coldly.

Her eyes snapped open, looking wildly into the golden glare of the witcher. At the same time, she brandished the dagger before her. Her lips moved into a wrinkled _O_, and she opened and closed it like a fish gasping for air. For a brief moment, she took on a look of the woman she would become. Brave and frightened, an unusual mixed.

He had forgotten how they must have woken her up. For a moment, he crouched there with his hand on her shoulder, looking down into her wild, bestial gaze. Geralt did not mean for his grip to be so tight nor did he mean his voice to be as harsh as it sounded. The witcher was concerned for her, he told himself. That was all. "It's dangerous to go to sleep right now. You might not wake up," he continued, gruffly.

She stared back at him. Her eyes widened with the fear of his words. The Arcani had done much damage to the girl, and he was not sure that she would ever recover from it. It was then that he noticed the cream-skin shining through the dirt face, evidence of fresh tears.

As if she had burned him, he released his grasp on her. The image of Laelithra looking up at him, locked in her private torture, ate at him. Every single emotion in the damned forest seemed to be amplified to him. He felt like everything he had experienced with Laelithra was placed into a mortar, ground into a paste, spread on his flesh, and stung as it was absorbed into him. It was not her fault, though. Deep within his clouding mind, he knew that.

Immediately, he pulled a small mortar and pestle out of the pouch on his baldric, along with the leaves of aloe and other plants that he had harvested on his way there. He put the leaves into the mortar and started mashing them into a fine paste.

With his back to her, he murmured, quietly, "Sorry about shaking you. I was worried for you, that's all." A part of him hoped that she had not heard him. It was unlike him to admit what he was thinking. Yet, there was something bringing forth his aggressiveness and his worry. It attempted to cloud his reason, but he would not give in. They would have to reach the other side if Laelithra was to survive. He knew that.

…...

Geralt could feel her searing gaze boring into his back. The little girl's breath came out rapidly. She was scared, and the witcher could understand and sympathize. After all, Laelithra had just gone through something that normal girls her age did not. Those children did not have a witcher as a father, forcing her to travel with him. It was why it was unusual for her to be so fearful right then. That's why it struck the White Wolf. Because it was not something he witnessed in her before; it was strange. Unfamiliarity made the witcher uneasy.

He started to press the pestle down into the bowl, grinding the various leaves inside. Pungent scents were released in the air and mixed with the sweet scent of the mint. It permeated everything that surrounded the witcher and Laelithra. The oils of the plants started to seep forth, releasing more of their distinctive, floral scents into the air.

A buzzing sound slithered over and crawled into his body like a maggot. It gently pulsed between his ears, expanding and contracting similar to a diseased bird. The rotten, enhanced emotions consumed him as it ate at the edges of his reason.

Immediately, the small child rose to her feet. Geralt knew that the pain must have been unbearable for her. Laelithra was different . She understood_; _she knew _him_. The simple fact that she knew Geralt of Rivia (both the man and the witcher) and didn't judge him was what mattered to the man. It bothered him, also. While it would explain their relationship many years lately, the White Wolf wondered how she could be so trusting and innocent seeing the things Viktor must had shown to her.

Behind him, he could hear the metal clang of his dagger; the weapon slipped from Laelithra's grasp. Instantly, he felt a twinge of annoyance at the blatant disregard for his possessions. It sank deep inside of him, pulling at his inner most thoughts. As the irritation pulsed in his veins, the humming sound in his body seemed to increase. Being vexed by the small child was something he was not used to. It felt alien to him like the foreign, moribund wind.

As Laelithra sat down heavily beside him, tiny tufts of needles and dirt heaved into the air, coating his leather trousers. She inhaled sharply, grasping at the congealing wound on her stomach. While blood did not flow freely from it, she grunted meekly once. Once more, he felt the stunning response at her ability to withstand pain. It was not a howl of confused hurt that he expected a girl of her age to make. Instead, it was a sharp intake of air, slicing through the thick tomb-like landscape. Along with this thought, he was reminded of Viktor again. The witcher steeled his resolve in finding her a normal life. Yet, he could not quiet that voice in the back of his mind. What did he, a witcher, know about a normal life? By design and not by choice, he was an outcast, subjected to disdain that even the worst diseased leper was not privy to. Who would take a child from a witcher? As far as townsfolk knew a witcher abducted children; his kind did not give children away freely. Geralt understood the way humanity was. He did not have to be a seer to prophesize how humans would reject the young girl, yet the fact that he believed the girl deserved a chance to be normal nagged in the back of the White Wolf's mind like a troublesome housewife.

Once more, he questioned himself on what a witcher knew was normal? For Geralt, this was normal. As with anything in the natural world, there was always something quicker and stronger than something else. This hierarchy applied even to the White Wolf, himself. For a witcher, normality was teeth and fangs in a creature's lair.

What did it mean for a girl? Of course, the witcher understood the generalizations about women. He was the White Wolf, a legendary lover, after all. Did that qualify him to evaluate what would be usual in a life of a very young peasant girl? He reflected on the situation, somberly. Laelithra would be feeding chickens and washing dishes. In a year or two, she would be learning how to become a good housewife and mother.

For a moment, Geralt tried to imagine the young, fierce girl like that. Her foster mother would teach her how to weave cloth. From what Viktor had shown her about sewing, she would shine in that department. Was the elder witcher teaching her to become a normal housewife? In the next thought, the witcher dismissed that. Viktor was probably training her in the tasks of a woman to make his life easier. In fact, Geralt knew this like it was a piece of monster lore. The elder witcher would not send away a girl he had started to give the herbs to. No, he had something special planned for the girl. As the White Wolf considered the possibilities, a shiver shot up his spine like a blade of ice.

Quickly, he shot a gaze at the young girl beside him. She sat with her hands in her lap, looking as prim and proper as some of the ladies in waiting he had seen at various royal events that he hated to attend. Witchers did not belong in politics as rulers did not belong in witcher's work. Like any other witcherling, she watched him intensely. Her eyes gleamed with curiosity, and the look in them questioned his every action.

She remained in silence. It was a common bond between both of them. They could enjoy the quietness together, seemingly happy not speaking a word. When one was with someone that they liked to be around, they did not need to communicate all of the time. Most women that he knew would nag at him like a harpy. They liked how he was until he bedded them. Then, they wished to change him into something he was not. Geralt could only be himself. Even as a small child, Laelithra seemed to instinctively understand that.

Occasionally, he would add some of the alcohol out of a small flask that he had stowed in the pack on his chest to the thickening mash of aloe gel, mint, and various other herbs. He would grunt as he pushed the pestle into the bowl, crushing the paste. The mixture stuck to the sides and bottom of the container.

Still, they sat in the continuing silence as it surrounded the space around them, comforting the two in an embrace that only they could understand. When he glanced at the girl again, he noticed the fresh tracks left by tears running down the her cheeks. He could not begin to understand what Viktor had done to her by lying about her brother. For all Geralt knew, the tears were because of the pain of the captivity. There were some occasions where he could not read women at all. It pulled at the strings of a heart he refused for so long. It cut him to see the girl crying, and he did not know why. Like flesh had been ripped inside of him and the wound refused to heal, the situation with Laelithra confused him.

The buzzing between his ears grew louder again, honing the confusion he felt deep within his soul. Geralt shook his head side to side in attempt to clear the confounding feeling deep within him. He felt as if he was slowly sinking into a sea of something he did not fully understand. Underneath it all, he felt a sharp need to get out of the forest. It ate at his subconscious like any monster gorging itself on his flesh. Yet, he was unsure if a witcher could even slay the cause of those emotions. The cold, hard truth was he neither had any idea who was behind the shifting magic in the forest, nor did he believe there was a danger.

Once he was satisfied with the texture of the mixture in the mortar, he ran his fingers down the length of the pestle, scrapping the paste into the bowl. Some stuck to him, coating his flesh green like moss clinging to the bark of a tree. Immediately, he return the long, thick pestle to his pack. "Lift your frock," he barked. The command came out harsher than he intended.

She shrunk beside him, trying to escape the witcher. Her lips set in a thin, grim line. Despite her fear, she grasped the hem of her dirty, soiled dress. For a brief moment, she looked uncomfortably up at Geralt. He could read the terror in her eyes, and he did not need to guess what had placed it there. Nightmares of the little girl being assaulted would stick with him until a monster took him. Again, he did not understand the pull this child had on him. As much as he tried to escape her, something was pulling him back to her. It was a mystery that the witcher probably would never solve.

The concern for Laelithra hit his chest, smashing into his heart like a battering ram. He did not care for her. Geralt tried to cling onto that selfish notion, but it was a futile effort. A sigh escaped his body, causing his chest to heave. What was he going to do with her? Again, he thought of the upcoming winter. She could not go to Kaer Morhen. If she was his or one of the others', she could go. However, she was not. Laelithra belonged to Viktor, the renegade witcher who stole their formulae. The other witchers needed to know the circumstances of the female child, but she needed a normal life as well. Geralt stood at a cross-roads, and he did not know which way he would go.

Her eyes widened in fright. The cult had caused that fear from abusing her in the darkness. He would see to their destruction. She should have been learning the duties of how to be a proper wife to a man: how to milk cows and bake bread. Laelithra should have had a normal childhood. Viktor saw that destroyed. Instead of learning how to do those normal activities, she followed after a witcher and learned their life. Geralt could not deny that he, himself, played a small role in it. He should have left her at the temple, but he could not refuse her anything even then. It was a strange emotion to experience for the man. As he thought of the feeling, he felt like he was quickly sinking into something that he had no reason to be involved in. There would be no help for Geralt.

"I won't hurt you, Laelithra," he stated, softer than before. It was imperative that she allowed him to put the salve on her. It would disinfect her wounds. He did not go so far benaeth the earth to allow her to die from an infection from the wounds that the monsters left on her. Once more, he was reminded of how much she should have had a normal life.

She still refused to lift her garments.

Geralt felt irritation pulsing in his mind, thumping with the effects of the elixir wearing off. If she was not going to listen to him, then they would both die. His rescue would have been for nothing. Frustration and anger simmered inside of him, threatening to boil over like a pot of water. Never in his long life had he felt like he was out of control. He was a witcher; he did not have emotions. He clenched his teeth, breathing the stagnant air in deeply.

Both Geralt and Laelithra were at an impasse. He would not give up on cleaning her wounds; she would not show him her injuries. There were a million reasons why she would not. First, he had to spread that paste on all of her injuries. Some of her wounds were too embarrassing for her to admit. The cult brutalized her, but Geralt had seen to it that they were punished for their crimes against the small girl. For the ones that escaped, he would hunt them down to the edge of the world if he had to. Even if he had to pick them off one by one, he swore to himself that the Arcani would learn to fear the name of the White Wolf, the legendary witcher of Rivia.

The reason why he cared evaded him much in the way he dodged creatures. She had hopes and dreams. In her sleep, she dreamed of her future life. It was not a lifestyle fit for what she was taught. He knew what she dreamed and hoped for. Although many times she would awaken from nightmares, the young girl held other dreams. It was in these dreams that his hopes for her having a normal life was supported.

She cringed away from him. His plans on placing her with a normal family seemed to evaporate before him like embers dying in the campfire. Tightening her fingers around the hem of her dress, her knuckles whitened as if she was a wraith. It was a fitting comparison, he thought. Laelithra was a ghost of her former self.

It was his fault that she was taken. If he was there, he could have fended off the assassin. The blame ate at his mind, breaking down his hard exterior. For a brief moment, he was awed by the unusual sensation. Because he was not use to having those types of feelings, he was sure that something or someone had bewitched him. Perhaps, it was that bruxa.

Despite his doubts, Geralt had to put the small girl at ease. He needed to cleanse her wounds and bring comfort to her aching body. The witcher could not carry her. Even though his body healed faster than a human's, he was reaching the thin line between life and death. Geralt would push himself further. In fact, he would face down death if he needed to save her. Shaking his head, he wondered why she was so important to him. Why was it that he could not separate himself from her? Resolve hardened in his body as if he was made of the same rare metal that his swords were. He would see that she lived a normal life. Viktor would not achieve what he sought to.

His lips turned upwards. He looked younger when he smiled, but that gesture was rarely witnessed. The sorceress made him smile a few times. Geralt did so to humor her, defusing situations. It was rare that his feelings were true. When he smiled, most would cringe. Revulsion was such a common occurrence that he did not think much of it. Because he was an outcast most of his life, he was acclimated to the disdain that his profession brought. Laelithra was different. "Take off your clothing," he commanded again, more softer than before.

Laelithra sighed deeply. A smile fluttered over her ashen countenance. She had lost much blood at the hands of the Arcani. Tugging on her frock, she slid it over her narrow hips. Dark bruises lined the soft flesh, circling the skin in blackening rings. Her cheeks reddened from embarrassment.

"Laelithra," he stated, gently, "I need you to undress completely." Geralt felt like he was talking to the Roach. For a brief moment, he wondered if he could calm Laelithra with a sign. She would be cooperative and do whatever he wished. Gazing at the oozing wounds on her thighs, he felt a heat overcome him. It disgusted him, stabbing inside of him like a razor-sharp blade. Looking at her injuries twisted the emotions inside of him, tightening the noose that Laelithra had on him. He had to see to her wounds. There was no way around it. She raised the dirty, blood-stained dress over the rest of her body, placing the cover of her shame on the pile of needles beside of her. Dark lacerations dotted her small frame. They would become dusky bruises later in the day. A deep open wound ran diagonally on her pale stomach.

No, he could not influence her in any way. She would find out, and she would be angry about it. Her temper would not help her healing. Laelithra needed to recover from her wounds if they were to survive. Geralt shook his head, causing his ivory hair to tumble against his shoulders like snow. He was resigned to the fact that he would not make it out of this forest. The witcher needed his strength to bring her to the edges of civilization. There was one problem. Witchers were met with open arms as long as they were needed. If there were no creatures to slay, they were met with rocks. Who would want to raise a child that was raised by a witcher? Even if he was able to place her with a human family, he did not know if she would be able to adjust. Viktor had sealed her fate with herbs and mushrooms.

She swayed from blood loss as she squared her legs. Her matted hair stuck to her face, framing her in a halo of gore. Geralt knew it would not be long before she collapsed. The girl needed the nourishment of a meal. He needed it as well, but he would starve himself to save her. Laelithra needed him.

"This will be cold," Geralt explained, "and it will tingle." He wanted to warn her of the effects of the paste. Laelithra was unlike any female he had known. She was unafraid of anything that they encountered in their travels, and she did not make too much of a fuss when he had to apply medicines to her body to help heal her wounds. With his hand, he turned her around gently. Geralt had to take a softer approach with the child, and he was unsure how he was going to do that. The paternal emotions did not suit a witcher well. He found it strange to be feeling the way he did about Laelithra.

The girl bent over rigidly and presented her buttocks to him. Blood stuck on her flesh, giving her flesh a crimson patina. As she moved, chunks of it flaked off and landed on the ground. She clenched her teeth together. Tears clung to her thick eyelashes like a line of miniature diamonds. Again, Geralt did not know how to react. He had never dealt with someone who had such a dual personality as Laelithra. Laelithra was strong one minute; the next, she was emotional. Because he knew she had been through much at the hands of the strange cult, he could understand her shame. Rage sizzled through him as if his body was made of water and the anger was searing lightning. He swore that that the Arcani would pay for their mistreatment of the child.

Geralt placed his hand and fingertips on her, spreading the paste on her skin. It amazed him how a simple act could change the witcher. He surmised Laelithra could change the hearts of any man, including ones like himself. His lips turned downwards as he scowled fiercely. The dense paste spread from his hand, clinging to her.

As he spread the medicine on her, her knees shook against him. Tears traced down her cheeks, allowing him to witness the private horror of the child. An uncomfortable silence grew between the two as if they had found out about the loss of a good friend. The stillness enveloped them. In her misery, Laelithra cried silently. Teardrops splashed on the springy ground, wetting the forest's debris.

Geralt turned his attention from Laelithra, becoming trapped within his own thoughts. She was unlike any child or woman that he knew. The fact clung to his soul like a fattening leech. Laelithra and the truth charged and overturned everything in his life like twin rampaging tornadoes. He was unsure what to do with her, but he understood that she could not continue to travel with him. It placed her in danger. Once more, he reflected on the thought that she could not come with him to winter at Witcher's Settlement.

"It's cold," she whimpered. Eerie stillness seemed to drown her voice out as if she was speaking to him from a long distance. She placed her tiny hands on her knees. Laelithra clenched her hands into fist, squeezing the soft, young flesh. Her flesh burned him as if she was in the center of an inferno. He should not care about her. The child should be no different than any other boy or girl orphaned from the war; however, she was. "This stuff smells yucky!"

"It is important that you keep this on," the witcher demanded of her. Because their situation was dire, Geralt or Laelithra could perish. Every bodily fluid was important to their survival. She could not waste her energy on tears. Crying about their situation helped no one. "It will make the pain stop and keep you from getting an infection."

Gripping her shoulders, he pulled back and forced her to stand again. The irritation grew in him as the minutes dragged on. He wanted to leave this forest behind him. Geralt swore he could hear voices moaning in the wind, urging him to ease the girl's torment the only way he knew how. Of course, he would never hurt Laelithra. His strength of will alone was strong enough to stave off the unnatural encouragement. Despite his iron resolve, the suggestions swirled around his mind with its sick implications. Perhaps, the rumors of the forest were true, he thought. It unnerved him. Narrowing his brows, his gold eyes flashed with fury. The witcher hated not to be in control of his own actions.

Anger, embarrassment, and hatred swirled deep within her gaze, waxing and waning with every moment that passed. The ferocity of her gaze reminded Geralt of the strength the child possessed. He was reminded of the delicate balance the little girl possessed. As if she was being blown about by a wind, she swayed on her feet.

Geralt dipped his fingers into the bowl and gathered the green mucilage onto his fingertips. It stuck to him, encasing his flesh in a gelatinous sarcophagus. As he placed the mixture on the wounds to her stomach, she sucked in her breath. Laelithra trembled against his touch, shaking as if she was a leaf fallen from a tree in autumn.

Laelithra closed her eyes. A sigh erupted from between her dry, blood and dirt-stained lips. Something about her perplexed him as she wobbled against him. Because her hair was caked with blood and soil, it stuck to her stubbornly. Her frock lay on the ground next to them. It was as stiff as her hair, and it would provide little protection.

"Most of my possessions were on Roach," he explained, bitterly. In her condition, he knew that she would not survive the night without some form of protection from the elements. He did not trust the forest. "I have nothing to offer you, with the exception of my extra tunic."

She did not answer him. Instead, she placed her arms around her tiny body. A shiver jolted through her, shaking her before his eyes. He could see the misery shining in her dark gaze. There were several causes of her torment, but he could not know how close she was to his horse. The tears shimmered, threatening to overspill once more.

Geralt turned from her, ignoring the affliction in his heart. He was uncomfortable once more. Like most every other man, he hated to be present when a woman or girl cried. The witcher had slain numerous beasts, facing several without hesitation or fear. Yet, this girl brought feelings of hopelessness out in him.

With difficulty, he stood and went to one of his saddle bags. Pain assaulted him, twisting around him like a snake. He reached inside, feeling around blindly for a hint of fabric. Despite his calm facade, his insides burned with concern. His mind raced as he tried to bury the vulnerability that Laelithra instilled inside of him deep within his stomach. It refused to be entombed in his body. Geralt's heart threatened to burst out of his chest.

His fingers curled around the coarse fabric of the tunic. Even though he never talked about those times or he held a calming facade over his pale countenance, the rage of his predicament clouded his mind. It was as if a foreign being had possessed the witcher. He swallowed the unusual rage inside of him. Witchers did not have feelings, he thought, sardonically. With regret, he glanced at the girl. Geralt understood one thing. He would never be the same.

Laelithra stared at him weakly. The color drained from her cheeks, making her resemble the ones that tormented her. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip, nervously. He knew she had lost blood at the hands of the vampire cult. Instead of banishing the image of her torture from his thoughts, he would use it. Geralt would take it within himself, letting it fester, and bring an entire sect to its knees. They would learn the White Wolf's name, and they would fear it.

He walked over to her with precise steps. The confidence rolled off of him, coming from his intense training. Geralt had one thing in mind. When he gave her his word to protect her from the cult, he failed. Pain ricocheted up his side, mixing with the incompetence of letting Laelithra be taken from him. Burning anger erupted inside of him as if he was a volcano threatening to erupt. Pulling his lips into a thin line, he snarled. Reaching out, he handed her the shirt.

She did not back away from him. In fact, she did not move. The young girl was an enigma to him. He did not understand the devotion or loyalty that she held for him. Geralt was a mutant, someone that humanity despised but needed. Everyone used him for something, everyone but Laelithra. Because of Viktor's interference, she trusted Geralt. Her affections did not come with pretty baubles or unselfish deeds. Laelithra was loyal to him because she _liked_ him. It was a strange thing to him.

He lifted his hands, and the bottom of the frock swung back and forth. The cloth was torn in several places as most of his shirts were. Geralt was frugal with his money, and he did not see the use of replacing the article until it was unable to be worn. Despite that, he could not help but think of how Laelithra affected him. It was imperative to him that she survived her ordeal. If he died, he would perish protecting her.

As her head popped through the hole at the top, she swayed against him. She had lost much blood at the hands of Jhaer, and he was doubtful that either of them would live. He felt weaker by the moment as he struggled to remained focused. She probably wished to sleep like he did. His body screamed for it. It gnawed on the edges of his mind, blunting his resolve.

"Don't move too much," he warned her, coolly. It would not be too hard, his thoughts reminded him, bitterly. She could barely stand as it was. He understood that it would have only been a matter of time before she collapsed before him. "Don't wipe it off either."

Once more, Laelithra did not answer him. She stared at him, drawing her eyebrows together. Geralt could feel the burning concern inside of her. He knew that the girl had a strong resistance. Laelithra was able to cope with tragic situations more than others her own age. Viktor had seen to it.

"I've got to get the fire back up so we can cook the rabbit," Geralt growled. He turned his back to her in another attempt to swallow the impossible emotions that she was making him feel. It was too soon for the witcher to feel anything for her. She was no different than any other child. Somehow, the thought did not banish his demons when it came to her. The witcher would not allow her to die on him, and he knew that to prevent that she needed to eat. Laelithra was losing her strength. Anger rushed over him in a sudden bolt of heat. "Clean and skin it while I see to this, please."

"No," she protested. Her words were barely a whisper among the rustling needles as she moved forward.

"Do it," he commanded her, simply.

She shook her head side to side again quickly. Her face paled at her movements as if she was going to vomit. Laelithra needed to eat to regain strength. Laelithra would never eat the rabbit raw. What could cause her to say no.

Geralt was confused at her refusal. As long as he knew Laelithra, she did not shy away from things. While he was gutting some creature for _proof_ of his contract, she was right there with him. However, he could not deny that the ordeal at the hands of the cult had changed the child. Before she was confident and rarely reduced to tears; she was emotional presently.

"You are hurt, Geralt," she stated. The conviction in her voice matched his own. Stubbornness versus bullheadedness. Geralt would win every time. He knew he was hurt, and she knew he was hurt. Irritation at the obvious nature of her assertion settled hard in his gut. "There is more of that to put on your own wounds."

The frustration traveled up his spine. He clenched his teeth together. Gazing over at her through lowered lashes, he sighed.

She placed her tiny fists on her hips, gazing confidently at him. In the future, the determination would cause him to admire the young woman. Laelithra would become every bit his rival in many aspects of his life. Presently, it bit him like a million mosquitoes piercing his flesh. "I am not doing anything until you take care of yourself," she dictated. Perhaps, she was feeling better.

Geralt strode to the fire, ignoring her outburst. If he did not get the fire going or if she did not clean the rabbit, they both were going to die. He would not let her perish in a forsaken place such as that. It annoyed him that she would not listen or that she could not see the danger in her defiance. There were times when he forgot that she was still a small child.

He knelt down, picking up small twigs and branches from the debris of pine needles. Already, he'd gotten a small blaze going, and he was slowly adding fuel to it to make a fitting fire for cooking. His body protested the action, making him shut his eyes tightly. Would this be the end of him? Geralt knew he was too confident when he fought the lackey of Jhaer. The boy was just a fledgling, and the witcher had more experience. Yet, the assassin had gotten the better of Geralt.

"You're hurt."

Feeling annoyed with Laelithra's insistence, he forced out a sigh. It rumbled around their campsite, circling between the two. "You are wasting time by not doing as I say," he said, not hiding the unusual discomfort in his voice. He continued to pile fresh wood, branches, and twigs onto his growing fire. The anxiety rose within him. His mind roared that it did not want to spend the night there. Too many times had the rumors come to his thoughts. "I want to get this rabbit cooked so we can get moving before dark. I don't know about you, but I don't feel like spending the night in this forest. Something isn't right here."

He could hear her exhale sharply. She could feel the intense pressure flickering between the two. It was a dead air, bewitching their thoughts and actions. Instead of fetching the animal, she scooped up a glob of paste from the mortar and pawed at the shredded hem of Geralt's shirt. The garment tore some more, filling the forest air with its ripping sound.

Geralt sighed in annoyance. "If it will get you to clean the damn rabbit," he growled aggressively, "I'll let you put that on me. I'd be more worried about eating if I were you."

"You are hurt, Geralt," she insisted again. Her tiny hands gripped the bottom of his shirt, curling around the material. She clung to it as if she thought he would rip her away from him. If he was honest with himself, it was exactly what he was thinking of doing. Her concern made him feel trapped, as if he was being constricted by a large, plump snake.

How was supposed to reply to something like that? Geralt did not have the slightest idea. He knew he was injured. If they were attacked again, it was a very real possibility that they both would perish. With each agonizing breath, he drew closer to the end. It would not be too awful, the witcher mused. After all, he had came to terms with how he was going to die many years ago.

"If you do not help yourself, how can you keep me safe?"

She was right, he thought, bitterly. A spark of annoyance surfaced inside of him, coating the witcher in a

grim cocoon. It left a flimsy coating on his soul. Geralt did not plan to give up, lay down, and die. He was more concerned with the welfare of the child than he was for himself. Of course, he would never admit to her that he simply forgot.

Once more, they found themselves in the comforting silence. It spread out before them, wrapping both the witcher and girl in its usual, warm blanket. Laelithra understood that he needed time to understand what transpired between the two. There was a pull that he could not explain, and it intrigued him. After all, it was why it was important to him that she lived a normal life. However, Viktor had demolished any chances of that. He understood that she needed time to come to terms with what had happened to her. Geralt could not slay the demons within her. It was something that she would have to conquer on her own.

Laelithra raised his shirt and lifted it over his head, exposing his scarred stomach and chest. Green paste smeared on his shirt. Various wounds dotted his body, cross-crossing the raised and puckered flesh. Blood congealed on the fresh injuries. It gave his lacerations, contusions, and scrapes a reddish-ebony sheen. Because of the severity of his scarred skin, he hated to be seen in any state of undress in public. However, the girl was different. She had seen to his wounds numerous times. He knew the reason she never judged him. Laelithra had taken care of Viktor's wounds too.

Dropping her arm, she felt him unlatch the pack he always carried with him. There was a time when he would have push her hand away. He carried the leaves of various toxic plants. Even to touch one, a human could be rendered unconscious. She was not human, he reminded himself. Viktor had begun his experiments on the girl. Geralt did not know how the herbs would affect her, but there was a reason that there were no female witchers. Laelithra was not a witcher, either. The child did not undergo the rest of the mutations. Luckily, Viktor had died before he could try them. Lifting a small vial filled with clear liquid, she went to work. Geralt wondered how she knew exactly where the alcohol was.

As she poured some of the liquid on the large wound to his stomach, he hissed in pain. The wound thudded greatly, mixing with the rhythm of his heart. He killed many monsters, and he was used to pain. It still did not mean that he did not feel pain. Geralt felt the agony of consuming elixirs, the torture of his flesh being sundered, and the torment of his injuries after a battle.

Taking his discarded clothes, she raised it to the wound and swiped at it. Her touch was gentle, and it mystified him. He wondered at the reason that Laelithra cared for him. Was it a sense of obligation? Geralt saved her from starvation on the road. Perhaps, she thought that she owed him. Deep in his mind, he knew the reason. She wished him to be something that he could not.

He heard her gasp at the severity of the wound. It must have been bad, he thought. Laelithra was accustomed to seeing him in various conditions of healing. As he looked at her, he could see the tears sparkle in her eyes. Geralt knew that she would not cry over him. She was worried about what would happen if he died before he got them help. The situation was dire, and it weighed on her. It could not be anything else, he lied to himself. He was a mutant, nothing more. Why couldn't Laelithra see that, why did she obsess about him, and why did she care? Suspecting he would never know the answer, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

She moved next to him. The pine needles and cones crunched as if they were moldy, rotten bones. He tried to take comfort in the fact that she was moving because Laelithra was so tired. There was something familiar about their relationship, an intimate flow to their movements. It alarmed him how relaxed he could be with the girl. To Geralt, it was not supposed to be natural. Geralt was not supposed to get along with the girl so easily. As he had found out in the past, fate had strange things planned for the witcher. Anxiety settle within his heart, eating away at his conscious thoughts.

Tingling assaulted his abdomen. Despite the lack of a breeze, he shivered against her touch. Geralt had never stopped to realize how badly he was injured. All of his thoughts were consumed with getting to Laelithra, rescuing her, and providing protection for her. As the searing pain dulled, a peacefulness came over the witcher. Much of his sour disposition came from his injuries. With the pain dulled, he could think clearly. Still, the uneasiness of the forest came over him. "Clean and skin the rabbit," he growled. "I don't want to be here come nightfall. Damn it."

…...

The fire burned strongly, casting its golden glow into the lasting darkness. Around them, he could sense animals scurrying back and forth. An unknown beast slithered and hissed its warning to the two trespassers. Geralt felt the hoary hairs on his arms stand on end. Doom hung heavily in the air. By daylight, it circled the edges of their minds and bore thoughts that neither would remember to having. It was amplified in the eternal blackness of night. They were imprison in a tomb, and neither knew the way out.

The child leaned her body against him. As he wrapped his injured arm around her shoulder, he breathed in deeply. It was strange how attached to Laelithra he was. There were times in his life that he developed a bond with others. However, it did not happen as fast as it did with this girl. She gazed into the fire, observing the dancing flames. Laelithra did not speak to him.

Rabbit flesh sizzled, filling the air with its savory scent. Smoke reached out with wispy tendrils, wrapping them in its uncomfortable embrace. With each breath, he pulled more of that savory, pine-scented fumes into his lungs. He coughed, and mucus rose to his mouth. It spread in his dry mouth as if it was slime left behind by a snail. Geralt sat up straight, becoming alert to every noise. Whether he was mortally injured or not, nothing would get past him. A promise and his word kept his senses sharp. Leaning forward, he grasped the long stick impaled through the animal.

Laelithra shifted against him. An airy sigh escaped her body. He disturbed her, and he waited for the eventual verbal onslaught. Girl children and women tended to reveal their disappointments when their father or man did something that they did not like. Geralt, himself, was the target of feminine disdain more than once. Despite his preparations, Laelithra did not attack him with words that could kill. She whined against him before resting against his side again. The more he traveled with her, the more he realized how different she was from others. Those thoughts made for a turbulent mind.

He turned the stick, rotating the rabbit hanging above the fire. The flesh of the beast was blackened, but he understood that it was as cooked as much as needed for their survival. Geralt stood, causing the girl to fall to their pine bedding. Frustration rose in him again. They could be walking and leaving the forest behind him if she would have cared for herself more than him. Why did she care? Only a few truly cared for a witcher; the rest cared if they wished something of him. Yet, Laelithra only required meager things.

"If witchers do not harm people," she said, disturbing him from his thoughts, "why did _he_ hurt me?"

Taking the hare off of the fire, he turned around and gazed down at Laelithra. "He was not a witcher," Geralt told her, harshly. He did not understand the significance of these mutated boys. Why was a vampire transforming young boys? Geralt needed to know what roll Viktor played in this. Rage circled his heart, stabbing deep within him like a thin blade.

"He looked like a witcher. What do you mean?"

Geralt breathed out a long sigh, trying to think of the best way to explain the situation to the small child. She was advanced for her age. Often, he had forgotten that she was as young as she was. He understood that it was because of the herbs that her _father_ had forced her to ingest. However, there were some concepts that she could not comprehend. This was one of them.

She did not move from the position she fell in. It worried Geralt because she would die. All of his caring for her would be a waste. He would not let her die. Geralt would not fail her.

Finally, he looked her squarely in her dark eyes, and she bravely met his gaze. Many months ago, he had learned that she was very courageous. While many of her age would run the other way, she took care of him. Only once had she shied away from his menacing eyes. It was when he first met her, and it was only for a few seconds. It was more evidence of who her father was. A coldness snaked through his body, coiling in the pit of his stomach. Geralt was uncomfortable with the way this was going. "No," he answered. "He may have been changed like a witcher, mutated, but he was no witcher. He didn't fight like a witcher, wasn't trained by witchers. He bent his knee to that abomination. That is something a witcher would never do. The one who held you was a monster, not because of what he was, but because of what he did. His actions made him a monster. The very existence of those monsters is an insult to witchers."

She continued to gaze up at him. It did not pass Geralt's awareness that she did not lift herself up. The girl did not show any signs of strength. Laelithra did not look away from him. He knew she never would. It was a strange relationship. Geralt understood their symbiotic relationship. She relied on him for both her physical protection and her emotional growth. That knowledge unnerved the witcher. "I don't know what you mean," she replied, honestly. "I learned that a monster is a monster. There is no difference."

"You still have a lot to learn," Geralt sighed. Viktor held the same philosophy when he was teaching at Kaer Morhen. It unnerved Geralt, and he felt like he wanted to teach the girl better. Once more, he had to admit the similarities between Viktor and the one who taught her. She would have thoughts a normal girl would have. Even if she was accepted into the human society, she would always be an outcast. The herbs she ingested would see to that. "Everything is not so black and white in the real world. Some would say I am a monster because of what I am and what I do. Do you think I am a monster?"

"No," she responded in a small voice. Laelithra was tired, and it laced her tone. He wondered how much longer before she would give in to what her body wished of her. She was one of the strongest children he had known, but her strength was ebbing.

A corner of Geralt's mouth darted upward in his ugly smile. While most shrunk away from him, the girl beamed. What did it matter to him what she thought of him? He did not know, and it was added to the questions that plagued him where Laelithra was concerned. She had wormed her way into his life.

Laelithra grinned at him, beaming under his approval. She sat up, straining to keep herself upright. Crossing his legs beneath him, he sat back down next to Laelithra with the rabbit in his hands. He looked her in the eyes to convey the seriousness of the lesson he was about to teach her. "The monsters you learned about may be monsters, that much is true," he said, "but not all monsters are evil. Not all humans are innocent and good, either. Some humans are no more than monsters by their actions." Upon seeing confusion in her youthful eyes, he explained further. "Judging which is which is something you will learn in time and experience."

She gazed hungrily at the meat in his hand. He could hear her stomach rumble as if small earthquakes were going off inside her body. A small line of drool appeared on the corner of her mouth, flowed down her face, and dripped off in a thin line on her chin.

Ripping a piece of flesh from the thigh of the cooked beast, Geralt held it up inspecting how cooked the animal was. Black, crispy skin outlined the pink meat. He squeezed the piece of rabbit, and tiny crimson droplets appeared on the flesh. The witcher held it out to her.

Quickly, she grasped it from him. The starvation and hunger reduced her to nothing more than an animal, a creature with its baser instincts in mind. She shoved the entire piece in her mouth and chewed it with her mouth open. He could see the bits of flesh and blood being mashed around with her tongue. It appalled him to see the child eat like that, but he surmised it was because they did not feed her. They just bled her for their own amusement, he reminded himself.

Geralt picked off a piece of the rabbit and put it up to his lips. The savory scent sent his stomach reeling with hunger. How long had it been since he had eaten? He could feel the effects take over his mind as the influences of the witcher medicine wore off some time before.

"How many years did it take you to learn?" she queried, quickly. Much of the words mixed together in her effect to get them out swifter than an elf could draw a bow. He had forgotten how inquisitive she was. It had to be her nature, and he was cursed with her.

"Do you have nothing but questions?" Geralt grumbled gruffly.

"How else am I suppose to learn?"

Geralt shook his head slowly. He couldn't help but be surprised at the resilience shown by the little girl. The witcher supposed that it was the product of the life she had lived to that point. Laelithra had anything but a normal child's life. She didn't play games and get fat from candy like so many children. Instead, she trained hard and was fed a diet of herbs, mushrooms, and grasses. The hardship of her life bred the very resilience within her that was the reason she was alive.

"Answer my questions, pweeease," she asked, sweetly.

"It's a hard lesson to learn," Geralt began, thoughtfully. "Most never do, and they always judge everything at a glance. Of course, most don't have the time to learn such a lesson. I may not look it, but I've lived longer than most humans could ever hope to. I first started to learn it my first season away from Kaer Morhen, and I am still learning it to this day. You are smart. I'm sure you'll learn it one day, too."

Laelithra pursed her lips as she looked at him. Greasy juice flowed down her chin, shining in the waning light. She lifted her arm and swiped it across her face. The fatty liquid was gone form her face. Instead, it lined her arm. Again, he was struck by the notion that she was not a normal little girl. Every single movement and mannerism screamed about her training. How would he find someone to take her in, to get her away from the life that Viktor had wanted her to lead?

He stilled, stopping his train of thought. Was that why he felt responsible for her? Viktor was a member of the Wolf School. If what she said was true, she was the other witcher's destiny. Did he think he was burdened with the child because Viktor was a member of his clan? It had to be, he thought. There could be no other reason why he instantly bonded with her.

"You aren't a monster!" she snarled, ripping the thoughts from him. Her tiny teeth clashed together in rage. She gazed up at him like someone worshiping a hero. He knew her feelings before her outburst. It was all too prevalent in their travels before she was abducted. The emotion was dangerous for her to have. Geralt was far from a good person. "You can't be. They..They're dummies! They deserve to be eaten."

"No," Geralt countered instantly. He knew she did not mean the things that she said. She was merely defending the witcher from the cruelty of the world. In a way, it flattered his battle-weary soul. Geralt could not break out of the teacher's role with her. "They are ignorant. Ignorance is not the fault of the ignorant, nor do they deserve to be eaten for it. Yes, they are wrong about me being a monster, but I am not one of them."

She gazed at him, stricken, as if he had raised his hand and slapped her. A gasp sounded from her, blasting around their make-to campsite.

"I don't wish to be accepted by them, nor do I wish to join their ranks. It is my duty to protect them from the true evils of the world: the monsters that kill the innocent. My price is coin, not acceptance. Once I finish a job, they have no use for me, nor I for them. That is the way it is, and I am happy with that," he continued. Geralt thought back to his first summer away from Kaer Morhen, when he was so hungry to be accepted, to be showered with gratitude for his acts of bravery and honor. Those expectations were dashed quickly, and he learned just as quickly that acceptance was something that a witcher would never earn. His kind were not knights.

Laelithra leaned against him again, taking comfort in the man that was as important as her father to her. When did he arrive at that position, he wondered. Because she needed him so much, it scared him. Geralt was used to rescuing others. It was what he did. After his job, he could leave. Yet, he could not shake the child. She came back to him.

They both ate the rabbit silently. The only sound came from the smacking of their lips and the rumble of their stomachs. Both needed the beast to survive. Geralt was worried about Laelithra. Her condition weighed on his mind. He wondered if she would ever be her joyful self again.

Reaching over to him, she handed Geralt the bones. Bits of the flesh hung off of it. Even though she tried, it was flesh that she could not eat. "It was good," she complimented him, smiling.

Geralt took one of the leg bones that she handed him and gazed at it. He picked off the bits of gnawed flesh with his fingers. It was important that she ate every single piece of meat. The flesh would help her fight off the fever that would soon follow.

She grasped his outstretched food and placed it to her lips. The meat was precious to them. Because of their situation, it could have been a beast carved at a king's table.

With seemingly no effort, he snapped the bone in half. The crack reverberated around the forest, alerting all to their position. He did not care. Geralt was sure that he could best any animal that they came across. Even though he was injured, he was still a witcher. His body healed faster than a normal human's. Besides, Laelithra's survival meant more to him. "You aren't quite done with this," he said.

Laelithra continued to chew, savoring the last bit of meat that he handed to her. Swallowing, she gazed over at him confused.

"Suck the marrow out," Geralt commanded. "You need the nutrients, especially in your state."

Her dark eyes rounded with a look of horror. He had asked her to do things, but Geralt had never really demanded it of her. The witcher did not have to. Geralt had his rules for her safety, and she followed. Yet, he felt that she was going to disobey him in this situation. She turned her nose up and shook her head. "I'm full," she insisted.

"That doesn't matter," Geralt continued, extending the shattered bone to her. "You need this, and I'm sure you've eaten things a lot worse than this. You're going to eat it." His voice never raised once, always keeping a metallic monotony.

Shaking her head again, she shifted away from him. There were two ways that he could approach her refusal to eat. He could be charming when he wanted to be, if he had time to be. The simple fact was that the child was living on borrowed time. Each minute she refused to do what he asked was a step closer to death for her. It was something that Geralt sought to avoid. He did not tromp through a vampire-infested cave to lose her from her bullheadedness.

Geralt moved closer to her. She was going to suck out the marrow on both of the bones. He could break it and scoop out the marrow, but it wasted, precious energy. The energy he did have had to be save if anything happened to them. They were still close to the Arcani lair, and he needed to be observant of everything. He leaned over and draped his _good_ arm around her shoulder.

With his other hand, he pushed the bone to her again. He was determined to get her to eat the marrow. She needed it, and he was not going to take her explanations as an answer. Laelithra was going to eat it one way or another.

"I'm full, Geralt," she countered. She pushed against his hand again. Her thin lips set in a grimace. Never taking her gaze off of the piece of broken animal bone, she leered at both him and the object of her disdain. Geralt knew she was not as satisfied as she let on. Laelithra was being a child. While it refreshed him to think that she could be placed with a _normal_ family, she needed to eat. "Besides, you need the nut-nutrients more. You are hurt badder than I am."

"I am a witcher," Geralt said, calmly. "You are a human child. Your wounds are far worse because you are weaker." He patted the pouch attached to one of his baldric straps. As he gazed in her eyes, he tried to convey the seriousness of their exchange. She had to realize that his healing metabolism was different than humans. Surely, she would know if Viktor was who he said he was. For the first time in a while, he felt a sliver of hope spring inside of him. "Besides, he didn't get to all of my herbs. I can make a salve that would poison you but help heal me. This is the only thing that can help you, now eat it."

Geralt thrust the bone toward Laelithra again, not letting her gain an inch in her wiggling. It was clear that there would be no chance for escape from the iron grip of the witcher holding her in place.

Resignedly, Laelithra turned towards the bone, still grimacing at the thought of what she was about to eat. "Fine," she said as she raised her hand and pinched her nose. Laelithra was ready to acquiesce to Geralt's demand.

Once more, he pushed the bone towards her. His grip tightened around her body, holding her in place. There would be no denying him. Nothing she could say would change his mind. She needed it, and she was going to eat it. "Suck the marrow out," he demanded of her, calmly. Geralt nudged her towards his other hand.

Laelithra leaned forward, pinched her nose tighter, and put her lips along the bone. Her eyes narrowed in disgust as if the object of her disdain was the most nauseating thing in the world. He found her refusal wearing on himself. It was an unusual feeling for him.

"Eat it."

Taking a breath, she held it. She lifted her other arm and covered her eyes. After a moment of stalling, she sucked in a great puff of air. The marrow slid along the length of the bone and popped inside of her mouth. Laelithra coughed violently, ripping her mouth off of it.

Geralt ignored her coughing. He was not being inconsiderate of her condition. In fact, he knew the worst was not passed. Laelithra could die before he could do anything about it. It was why it was so important for him to get her to eat. Flicking his wrist, he tossed the hollow leg bone to the side.

"I don't want to eat anything like that again," she hissed, weakly. Of course, Laelithra was stubborn. If she liked the marrow, she would never admit it to him.

Reaching down in his lap, he picked up the other part of the leg. It had less flesh hanging off of it than the other. He turned the bone to her and gazed at her. "Now," he said, "this one."

Laelithra turned her head away quickly, resolutely refusing to eat the proffered food. "No," she protested. "Isn't one enough?" Her voice came out in a weak whine, reminding Geralt that she was still a little girl despite everything. Still, she was in grave danger, and he wasn't going to go through the same song and dance that he had with the first half of the leg bone.

"You didn't eat one," Geralt stated blatantly. "You had half of one. Now eat." He pressed the bone against her pursed lips, and Laelithra finally gave in, opening her mouth. With a grimace, she slurped the marrow into her mouth and tried to swallow it quickly as she gagged. She threw the bone with disgust and looked up at Geralt.

"No more?" she pleaded. Geralt nodded.

"No more," he said, reassuring the child. "That's enough for now. Try to get some rest."


	12. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

"This forest seems to go on forever," Laelithra panted, trying to keep up with the loping gait of the witcher. Even wounded, he moved quickly. Brittle pine-needles blanketed the ground, creating a dead, brown carpet. They crunched beneath the heels of their feet. Fetid air assaulted their senses, and she gagged as if she had stumbled upon a bloated, putrid corpse. Geralt was sure that there was an animal carcass beyond the trees. She glanced around them wildly.

Geralt could understand the frightening feelings that surged in the girl. He himself felt the terror rise within him. There was something wrong with the forest, and he felt that from the moment he had entered it. Green grass changed to brown as they passed into the heart of that desolate place. Presently, there was neither living plants, nor animals to hunt. The very air was nearly unfit to breathe. Disbelief over his surroundings overtook his thoughts. Shaking his head, strands of his pale hair brushed his thick eyebrows. It was important that there would be no questioning the things that he did in that woodland. If their wounds did not kill them, mistrusting his instincts would.

"Do you think we will find a road soon?" she whispered. She staggered as she tried to keep in stride with Geralt. Her arms flung out wildly. Quickly, she caught herself before she landed on the pine needle-ridden, grass carpet.

"I don't know," Geralt answered, slowly. "I hope so." Like daggers to his stomach, agony knifed its way through him. It made the surroundings blur together. He sucked in a gulp of air, closed his eyes, and willed the pain to leave. His body screamed for sleep. At the least, it needed meditation. A part of him knew the importance of centering his mind. For if he kept the frantic pace of thought, he would surely lose his mind. Slowly, the air released from his lungs.

Though he tried his best to mask his exhaustion (and he knew instinctively it would not work on the girl), his wounds were heavily trying on him. As he inhaled a deep breath, it felt like an inferno erupted within his body. He opened his eyes and blinked slowly. Geralt glanced down at Laelithra. She seemed to be recovering. While she still lost much of her youthful exuberance, she did not whine or lag behind. In caring for her, however, he did not pay much attention to his own injuries as he should have. Laelithra had insisted on spreading the last of the salve he had made onto his wounds. Because he stitched the wound, albeit crudely, he tried to take comfort in those actions. A hope blossomed inside of him. Perhaps, they wouldn't die.

Pain ripped through him, snaking its way up his body. It demanded that it be the only thing that he concentrated upon. Again, his body cried out for a rest. An overwhelming exhaustion spread over him, seeping into his bones like a sponge taking in water. He wanted to lay down and shut his eyes. No, he craved the sleep to come. Each time he breathed it felt like he was walking through a desert without hope of water; pain scorched his thoughts as if he was engulfed in a roaring fire. Each breath felt like someone stabbed him to the hilt with a sword, twisting the blade. With each step, it became increasingly difficult to move. Geralt wanted to give in to his body. A strong urge billowed in his mind. It whispered its seductive serenade in the back of his mind, keeping to the shadows. His body wished to give up.

A part of him pondered on the intense need to lay down. It was normal for an injured person to wish such a thing. One's body's told them it needed rest to mend itself. Yet, Geralt was different. Sweat beaded on his forehead and raced down between his eyebrows. The salty liquid stung his eyes, making him blink. He exhaled slowly, hissing. The perspiration slid down the bridge of his nose and off the tip. Sinking into the trees' debris, it left several large spots in the tangled mess.

The wound to his stomach was obviously infected. It weighed on his mind, forcing him to ponder what the child would do if he would fall. Clenching his jaw, he would not entertain such a possibility. Geralt tried to push it out of his mind as if he was a landlord evicting a tenant that was late with their rent. She relied on him, and the witcher would not abandon her even in death. That, along with her safety, was the reason for his rushed pace. There was no other choice. He knew he wouldn't last long without proper care. Determination soared through his his veins. If he was going to die, he had to at least lead her to the road. From there, she would be safe.

As they walked, she drifted closer to him. Every unexplained noise caused her to jump and clutch at his arm. It was unlike Laelithra to be as frightened as she was. She was a brave little girl. In fact, she was so brave that it bordered on the line of stupidity more often than not. Geralt knew the nature of their bond. Laelithra looked to him as she looked up to Viktor. When she talked to Geralt, she did not have that forlorn look as she remembered the past. Had she moved on? He could not deny that he was her present, and the girl stayed in the present with him. It unnerved him to be needed that way. Could he accept it? As a witcher, he was a mutant by default. Feelings were strange and foreign to him. The more he was around Laelithra, the more that he had to deny what he felt deep inside. With each refusal, exhaustion began to set in. How much longer would it be before he snapped? Geralt truly did not know.

He could feel a paranoia slip up his spine, causing him to glance into the darkening wood. It spread, blossoming like the branches of a tree. Geralt could feel someone following them. Leaves crunched in the shadows of the trees to the left of them. Whispers sounded around them, ringing in both of their ears. When he looked, there was no visible source to the sounds that he heard. Once more, he stared sharply into the wooded horizon. If there was anyone there, he would see them. Geralt would deal with the problem swiftly and in the best manner he knew how.

Pain flared in him again. He could feel the flesh swell, pulsing tightly against the twine holding the wound closed. It was becoming difficult to walk, as if the witcher was striding through knee-deep sand. Agony screamed inside of his body with each step, cutting inside of him. Geralt breathed deeply and held it. Lifting his foot, he brought it down on the needles and crushed them beneath the heel of his boot.

Again, he glowered into the woods. Fury swirled within him, mixing with the searing pain erupting from the wound to his stomach. They mixed together, creating a powerful amalgam of suffering and wrath. The emotions simmered, sparking something bigger. He was too weak to deny the feelings flowing through his body. It took too much precious energy to do so. Geralt knew the irony of the situation. For many long years, he had contemplated his death. A witcher died from fangs and talons. They did not perish from men. Almost never, he reminded himself, bitterly. The truth was that he was injured by a boy. No. Even if the boy wounded him, his own arrogance had costed him. Resentment of the situation surged, exploding inside of him.

Lights flared in his mind, mixing with the heaviness of the forest surrounding them. The ivory halo rotated rapidly, bouncing from tree to tree. As the ache knifed sharply in his brain, he let out a breath of air slowly. It hissed through his teeth and caused the pain in his head to crack once again. Yellow pus leaked from the wound. Spiraling down the carved muscles of his stomach, it spilled onto the leather of his pants.

Despite his ailments, Geralt would protect Laelithra if they were attacked. His instincts to shelter and keep the little girl safe felt strange to him. He still did not know what made her so different than any other orphan from the war. It was a question that would haunt him the entire time that he was with the girl.

"I don't feel right," she whispered, huskily. Laelithra drifted towards him again and lifted her arm. She placed it on his bicep. Refusing to look at him, she stared at the ground. The girl took delicate steps beside him, trying to match her pace with his again.

His muscles flexed beneath her touch, his body screaming as if she had thrust a red hot poker into him. Nausea poured from his stomach and jetted up throughout his body. It threatened to erupt from him like a geyser. He clenched his teeth together, pressing his lips closed tightly. Geralt's face never lost the calm feature that the girl grew use to.

"My body aches, and my head hurts," she whined. Her voice cut into his throbbing head as if she had taken his steel sword and clove his head in twain. She lifted her arm and swiped her hand through her matted hair. As her hand got caught in the tangled mess, she hissed.

The witcher remained silent. He was in his own pain, concentrating on defending her if there was a time that called for it. Geralt swallowed the bile as it spread across his tongue. It burnt on the way back down, making his throat throb.

"There is something wrong about these woods," she whined, fearfully. It struck him as unusual because she was usually so brave. Once, he thought that there would be nothing to penetrate the cheery cloak that she surrounded herself with. With a sharp hiss, she yanked her entangled fingertips from her gory halo. Specks of crimson and ebony dotted her fingers. "Something. . ."

"I feel it, too," he replied quickly, interrupting her. Geralt noticed the strange quality of the woods around them long before Laelithra said anything. As he pursued her and her captor to the bruxa's lair, he'd felt the creeping doubt set in. He clasped his hand around the medallion hanging from his neck. It vibrated sharply in his hand, making the nose of the metallic wolf scrap rhythmically against his palm. There had been times passing through the forest that he felt like the amulet would pull him to the ground.

"There are strange places in the world," Geralt muttered, quietly. There were a few places in the world that effected the witcher like this forest did. He began to question all the legends that he had heard of the forest, and the monsters that he had slain in it. The village neighboring the outskirts of the woods had always provided decent jobs for witchers. In fact, the alderman had been friendly with Geralt. Well, as friendly as a human could be to a witcher. Why was he met with rocks the last time through then, he thought.

The corner of his upper lip twitched in a sneer. He thought back to what he found so perplexing in that hole in the world. Long ago, he learned that anything could be a monster. Vampires varied just as dwarves, elves, and humans varied. There were some that did not seek to do harm. Others learned their lessons, while others, like Jhaer, sought to destroy the entire world. Geralt was not quick to judge the lesser evil. Sometimes, the lesser evil came in the form of a beautiful package. Sometimes, there was no lesser evil. There were somethings in this world that just were evil. Jhaer was one such thing. The entire cult needed to be extinguished. They were a threat to someone he cared about.

While he did not doubt the vampiress could affect an entire village and even the forest, her effects should have waned when she disappeared through the shimmering portal. It did not explain why the medallion jumped within his enclosed fist. There was something driving his doubts. He did not know what it was infecting his thoughts, and it infuriated the witcher. Geralt built a resistance to magic that affected his mind. It was no easy task to accomplish. Whatever affected the forest allowed the bruxa to move her cult through it with ease. If that was the case, it had to be a physical manifestation of magic.

The lurking mistrust assaulted his weakening senses then. It festered in his mind, clouding him with its nagging questions. Glaring into the woods, he saw shapes and shadows moving through the spaces between the trees. Geralt straightened, making the straps crossing his bare chest tighten. The hilt of his sword lifted, peeking over his shoulder. Swiftly, he raised his arm and wrapped his hand around the grip of the blade. If he had to defend Laelithra, he would do it.

A long tense moment passed as Geralt remained silent. He could hear the labored breathing from Laelithra as she tried to keep up with his pace. Needles cracked beneath them, signaling their journey to whomever was following them. The stillness continued to envelop them as it amplified all sounds to the witcher's sensitive hearing. Geralt strained to hear whatever was following them. A desperate need was fostered deep within the witcher. It settled hard in his stomach like cheap liquor. Feeling the comforting grip of the sword in his hand, he scanned between the tree trunks for signs of unusual movements.

Geralt narrowed his eyes, continuing to try to sense any movement in their midst. Laelithra must have sensed his urgency because she quieted. Taking in a deep breath, the girl stared into the woods. It amused the witcher because he knew that she would not be able to see or hear anything if he could not. She was increasingly brave, and she would often surprise him by the maturity she possessed at her age. It would be only natural if she was frightened. However, he knew instinctively that she was not. The girl had seen too much with Viktor and himself, and she had too much done to her. No, she would not be scared. Even when she was held captive in the bowels of the earth, he did not think she was terrified. Of course, she was hurt and angry. Anyone, witcher or otherwise, would have those emotions. Yet, it was as if she could not be scared. Was that because of what Viktor forced her to eat?

As he continued to gaze at the spaces between the trees, he was not sure if the shapes and shadows were real or if they were figments of his imagination. They could be a product of the doubt planted in his mind by the mysterious forest. The distrust blossomed in his mind, flowering like a ebony rose. All he knew was that he did not want to find out if they were real or not, and he wanted to get them both out of the macabre woodland.

She breathed hard next to him, panting in her exertion to keep up with his pace. Laelithra's little puffs of air mixed with the barren noise of the landscape, burrowing deeply into his brain. For a brief moment, she glanced up at him and met his gaze with a hidden sneer. It was unusual for Laelithra to express any sort of emotion to him that did not involve idol-worship. Often, the fact that the girl looked up to him unnerved the witcher. He did not want to be relied upon or have the girl choose her reactions by the actions that he, himself, took.

Geralt could feel fury spark in the pit of his stomach. It twisted, grinding inside of him. What would make her snarl the way she was at him? He was used to the disdain from villagers and townsfolk. The witcher was even aware of the contempt that sorcerers bore for his kind, and it did not bother him. It surprised him to see such a look on the face of the child. Because of what Viktor was, Laelithra never conveyed any scorn for his kind. For a brief moment, he wondered if the look was really there or if he was seeing things. Softly, he cursed the forest and the menacing thoughts running rampant through his mind.

Clenching his teeth together, pain twisted within his stomach. He felt the agony slither through his body, coiling around his waist. It clutched at him with its searing talons and refused to let go of him. Breathing in deeply again, he tried to think of anything else other than the crippling torment eroding his will.

He shook his head, sending strands of hoary hair brushing against his temples. It tickled his flesh and made the witcher tighten his jaw. How long were they going to trample through the wilderness before they reached the road? Truly, the witcher did not remember traveling this deep within the woods before he found some sign of creatures or civilization. The desolate atmosphere of the landscape seeped into his muscles and burrowed deep within his bones. Geralt doubted that they would escape with their lives.

Hopelessness rose and crested like an enormous wave over his body. Despite the crushing feeling of defeat, he continued to walk on. He lifted his leg and sank his boot-heel into the carpet of needles. Geralt knew he needed to be aware of his surroundings. The witcher would protect Laelithra until he drew his last breath. Watching the shadows move around them, he hoped that they were figments of his imagination. If they were the result of a weakening mind, then they posed no physical threat to the girl. Geralt would continue on as he was without any incident. However, he would have to clash with whatever those shadows were if they were real. While the witcher drew breath, the creatures would not drag her back to the vampire.

Geralt let out a long hiss of air. It echoed around both Laelithra and himself. Though, there were several places where he felt the stifling oppression like the forest held, none had put a physical doubt inside of him. As time moved on, he could feel his will being slowly drained from him. He wanted to lay down and rest. The need for peaceful respite billowed like a roaring furnace, illuminating his weakness in its sickening light. Tightening his clenching jaw, he fought off the tiredness that threatened to end it all. His hand tightened around the grip of his sword again as he sought comfort in the tattered leather wrapping the hilt. Because he needed to be aware of his surroundings, he stared into the darkness of the woods. Yes, he hoped that the shadows moving between the trunks were his imagination. Deep inside of him, he knew he was in no condition to fight. Weariness sapped his strength.

Sighing heavily, he continued to move excruciatingly. He was worried that the bruxa would attack him when he was feeble. There would be no defending Laelithra from such a powerful foe. Jhaer would overpower him, and he would fail the child. Geralt sucked in another breath, battling the doubts that circled his mind like urine spinning around the hole in the floor of a privy.

He realized the folly in worrying about the bruxa coming when he was weak. The unnatural creature's voice still rang in his head. Jhaer had said that he would take her, and that Geralt would train her in his ways. Laelithra would be just like him. Scowling, he knew that was a lie in itself. Nothing in the world would make him train the girl in the ways of the witcher, especially in the way that the beast had implied. If he was going to entertain the idea, he could not preform the necessary mutations. It had not been done in ages, and the formulae died with Viktor. No, he was not going to make her like him. She would have a normal life; Geralt would see to it. Yet, who would take a child from the White Wolf, a witcher?

Laelithra slowed and put her hands on her stomach. Her pale cheeks blossomed red, making her look like a cherry blossom. She took in a deep breath and held it. For a brief moment, Geralt thought that she was going to pass out. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she let out the air. It wheezed out of her as if the breath of air was a battering ram. While he traveled with her, he forgot that she was a normal human. The girl acted like so much more. In fact, she had more courage in her body than many adults. If she was a boy, she would have made an excellent witcher. As her breath slowed, she gazed up at him. Curiosity slept deep within her, rising with endless questions. "What are some of the strange places you have been to, Geralt?" Laelithra asked him.

For a moment, he thought of all the weird places he had visited. Crypts, towns, and cities flowed through his mind. They did not come as easily as they should have. It was as if a dam had been built within his brain, and it slowly leaked out the mental images. He scratched his temple as the act of recollection was becoming very difficult for him.

He frowned as the thoughts trickled out like water. It was becoming an arduous task to remember anything: another product born from the forest. His memories became cloudy as if they were covered in mud. Geralt understood that too well. A panic bloomed in his body, spreading out into all corners of his being. The witcher wondered if the forest was going to leave lasting scars on his memory. If he survived, there would be lasting scars on his body. They would be the never-ending testament to the witcher's devotion to the girl.

"There is a place at the edge of the earth," Geralt said, "called Dol Blathanna. The name means Valley of Flowers."

She struggled to keep up with him. Reaching over, she gripped his arm again. Her hands felt warm against his cold flesh as if she was a warm campfire and he held his hands over her comforting flames. His bicep bulged underneath her tiny hand. "It sounds like a beautiful place," she replied, softly.

There were times when he forgot that Laelithra could not keep up with his relenting pace. The need to leave the hellish woods behind him had caused him to forget. His legs were longer than hers. While she had been fed the mushrooms, ferns, and grasses, she was not mutated. Although it relieved the witcher, he had to remember she did not have the fortitude that Geralt had. He slowed his pace slightly, allowing Laelithra to keep up more easily with him.

As he looked down at her, he saw her gaze cloud over with confusion. He did not understand what puzzled her. It slowly dawned on him that he was not the only one affected by the strange mist clouding his mind. The numbness crept over both of them, blanketing their minds like fog on an early spring morning. "It sounds like a beautiful place," she replied in earnest.

"It lives up to the name," Geralt went on. "There are flowers growing all around there. The air is heady with their scent." He went quiet, remembering his time spent in Dol Blathanna. It seemed like centuries ago with the forest's miasma affecting his memories. Hopelessness sank into the witcher again. Geralt knew there would be damage to their minds if they did not escape the forest soon.

"How is a valley full of flowers strange?"

"The place isn't strange, so much as the people," he explained to the child, patiently. They continued at their pace. Every so often, the child would stumble and clutch at his arm again. She could not keep up with his pace, still. Once more, he slowed to allow her to walk with him. Both were hurt, and Geralt's frantic pace was not helping either of them. In fact, it produced the opposite effect. His quick stride was making the wound to his stomach stretch, causing the crude stitches to tighten and pull at the ragged skin around the wound.

"Well, what's so strange about the people?" Laelithra asked, curiously. As they continued to walk, a root reached out and grabbed at the little girl's foot. She cried out in pain, shivering from the twigs on her foot piercing the skin of the bridge of her foot. Losing her footing, Laelithra stumbled next to him.

Quickly, he bent over sideways and caught her. His hand gripped her arm hard, leaving fingerprints behind. He heard her hiss in pain as she clenched her teeth.

Her matted, gnarled hair hung down in her face. Gore clumped several of the pieces together. It was as if her hair was a bird's nest. She looked up at him, flinching from his grip on her upper arm. When her eyes widened, he could read the fear there. The terror spread across her pale countenance. As the wild, fiery light entered her gaze, he felt as if she had physically struck him. Laelithra was one of the only people that was hardly ever frightened of him. In fact, it took less convincing than he would have thought to get her to join him when he met her on the road that first time. Refusing to stay in the temple, she willingly followed him.

He marveled at the speed of his reaction. Nothing about the girl made sense to him, and he hated when things confused him. The witcher, like any other person, liked it when things were normal for him. Yet, normal for a witcher meant teeth and claws. Geralt slowly realized that there was more to their relationship than he was comfortable with. It was a foolish notion to become attached to the girl. She needed a normal life, and she would not get that life traveling with the witcher. With an unexpected moment of sadness (which made him more uncomfortable), he knew what he would have to do if they made it out of that cursed place. He would have to send her from him. Laelithra would refuse, but she would take no for an answer this time. For her own safety, she had to.

"They speak in a manner I haven't heard anywhere else," he answered. Geralt removed his hand from her arm. He gazed at the elongated oval shapes blossoming on her arm as if they were spring flowers opening for the first time. Her presence burned him suddenly, forcing him to evaluate the situation with her. Shaking his head, he tried to clear his thoughts. "And they had a book, written in the First Runes, describing all manner of monsters and how to deal with them. There's even an entry for 'witchmen'."

She reached up, clutching at his hand. The fall had frightened her, and the aberrant woods amplified those feelings. He knew she did not want to stay in the forest. Geralt did not blame her. After all, it had a strange effect on both of them. Despite the fact that Geralt was not prone to attacks against his mind, the forest fabricated doubt, interfered with his memories, and planted thoughts inside of his head. In fact, the witcher did not want to be where they were either. The fresh grass turned brown and lifeless as soon as he stepped over it. Heavy air stifled him, suffocating with its silent, invisible tendrils. An uneasiness spread inside of him and whispered actions that he rebelled against. He would not hurt Laelithra.

If he was going to die in this forsaken place, he would not take the child with him. As they walked deeper into the woods, he could feel his will seeping out of him. It flowed through him slowly as if he was leaking. In a way, that was exactly it. He started to feel numb like he had fallen through thin ice on a river in winter.

"Finally," she exclaimed, excitedly. "Father and you got the praise that you deserve. Did it say that the villagers should like you. . .that they should give you good money for your work?"

"It is hardly praise, Laelithra," Geralt said. "The book explains that a witcher should be summoned in dire need, and should be otherwise avoided." He paused for a moment as he watched the path before them. Danger rang through his body like he was a stricken bell. He wanted out of the woodlands. The knowledge bolted through him, making him scowl. Choking off the passage and blocking out the light from the sun above, the forest on both sides seemed to crowd around them. It whispered that his efforts were in vain, and she was still going to die. Geralt would be the one to murder her. As the air grew ominously heavy, he shook his head. Bits of white brushed against the hilt of his sword. He tried to shake the feelings from his mind, but they clung to him like fattening leeches. "It says we carry the mange, and that we are greedy and covetous of woman."

"That's stupid," she defended Geralt, vehemently. It warmed his heart to have someone full of such conviction care about his well being. She was reliant on Geralt, and it worried him. How would he ever be rid of her? Laelithra got whatever she wanted because she had the drive to do so. In retrospect, she would have made a decent witcher, if she was a boy.

Again, he shook his head and tried to drive the fog from his mind. He could not think like that. It was what the bruxa wanted for some unknown reason. Why was the creature obsessed with mutating boys? He supposed it could have been that she would not have to worry about others like himself coming for her if she had her own personal bodyguards. A bruxa could be a malignant beast, obsessing with blood and ruin. This one was no different from those he had seen. What drove the boys and other humans to her like a plague? Even sorcerers and sorceresses were not immune to her charms. Apparently, neither were witchers, he reminded himself, grimly. To be able to mutate those "special" recruits, she would have had to come across their formulae. What was Viktor doing?

"I have the book at Kaer Morhen," he went on finally. "If you are interested, I could read it to you someday, maybe even teach you to read the First Runes." Geralt did not realize what his offer meant to himself and Laelithra. For the longest time, he had thought about just handing her over to someone. The person had to understand how to handle the girl. Did any of them know how to handle her? Viktor had sealed her fate by giving her those herbs, so he tried to give her away to someone who could help her: Nenneke, a normal family, anyone who was able to deal with a child as special as Laelithra was. If he was going to teach her to read the runes, it implied that he was not going to disappear out of her life as he had planned. Shock coursed through his body, narrowing his brow.

Before she tore her gaze away from his, crimson bloomed on her face. Embarrassment swirled deep within her eyes. "Father never taught me to read. He only thought I needed to know a few words," she explained, quietly. Shame thickened her tone. It was obvious that it was something that she did not want to talk about. "What is the mange?"

Ignoring Laelithra's question, he focused on her other statement. She was young, but she should have been taught to read. Illiteracy was not uncommon among the peasants and commoners throughout the world, but someone as special as this child should have been given that knowledge. It ate at Geralt, making him feel pity for the girl. Despite his sympathy, he would not say that. Laelithra would have scorned it because she saw herself as a strong, courageous individual. Perhaps, if her life was normal, she would have learned, and Viktor would have taught her as well, as he had started. Geralt did not think that the elder witcher would have deliberately crippled the girl. "They would have taught you to read at the temple," he said. "They would have taught you more than that. When we are safe and recovered, I can teach you to read. You're too smart to not be taught."

Once more, the shock fluttered through him. Twice, he had offered to stay around after he had brought her to a safe place and seen to her having a normal life. He wished to be rid of her, but why did he wish to teach her. She was not his responsibility, his mind argued. Deep inside, he knew that she was all of their responsibility for what Viktor had done to her. The others needed to know of her. Yet, Geralt would not be to blame for the life the elder witcher wanted to send her on.

Pain ripped into his stomach and side, burning in its intensity. Clenching his teeth, he fought the natural instinct of clutching his side. The agony bubbled vigorously inside of him, overspilling like a pot of water left over a fire too long. He hissed through his teeth. Geralt knew the mindset of the girl next to him. She would fuss over him, demanding that they stop so she could tend to his wounds. After all, she would not clean the rabbit until his own wound was washed and tended to. There were times when he thought that Laelithra was more stubborn than he was. Not by much, he thought, but she would not budge if she knew of the agony that clouded his thoughts.

His thoughts continued to shake him. He was planning on returning to Laelithra. She had no one to guide her in the world. Humans would not understand the experiments that Viktor had done on her. The only ones who would understand would be himself and his kin. Laelithra could not go to Kaer Morhen because she was not his, or any of the others, destiny. She was Viktor's. Viktor had betrayed her, forcing her to ingest herbs without knowing the complications that could have arisen. Because the elder witcher was kin, Geralt felt responsible for her. It was uneasy to realize, but it burned in him like the pain assaulting his body. He was a witcher, and he should not feel anything for the small girl holding his hand.

"What else would they have taught me in the temple?" she asked him. Color entered her pallid face, beaming at his compliment. It must have meant the world to her for him to think she was intelligent. His stomach lurched forward at that notion. He did not want her to count on him. The doubt settled in once more. Geralt knew he would only fail her like he did before.

"Enough questions for now," Geralt muttered through his pain. "Just let me focus on the path. We need to get out of this forest." The forest continued to build doubt and confusion into both their fragile minds. Geralt found himself becoming annoyed with Laelithra's incessant questions. He just wanted to lay down and quit, but his resolve had not quite eroded to that point yet. Holding on to Laelithra's right hand, he squeezed it firmly. His other hand hung limply at his side. They plodded onward, the forest enveloping them and seeming to stretch onward forever.

Time passed slowly, stretching on indefinitely to the beat of Geralt's footsteps. The soles of his boots sank into the springy grass, tangled roots trying to grab a hold of the witcher as it had Laelithra. He would not be tricked as she was. There was something off about the forest, and he had no intention of staying to find out what. They both needed medical attention. Geralt's medicine could only stave off infection. It could not cure the child.

They had passed out from beneath the sprawling stretch of pines and into a forest of oak and maple. Many of the trees were gnarled, bereft of foliage, half-dead shades of what they must have once been. Despair clutched at him. He truly thought that they would have found the road at the end of the pine forest. Could the trees change their course, hiding the true way out? Geralt did not think it possible, but he had seen stranger things, or, at least, he thought he had.

Strangely, thought, light struggled to penetrate to the forest floor, as if an impenetrable mist surrounded the forest. To make matters worse, the amount of undergrowth increased, making passage far more treacherous. Roots, branches, and thorns reached for the travelers, attempting to snare them in the forest forever.

Geralt walked onward, making slow progress. He continue to hold her hand, helping her over obstacles that barred her way. She struggled to keep up with him. In her eyes, a determination glistened. It was this part of her that made Geralt sure that she would survive. Despite his thoughts, to be released from the oppressive canopy of the pine forest lifted Geralt's spirits slightly.

Laelithra did not speak to him. She trudged along beside him in silence. Both were thankful. It was some time that he could digest what had happened to her and what he was going to do about it. There was much that he had learned. Still, there would be more that he needed to think on. He did not know how to address the situation looming before them.

Tears coursed down her cheeks, dripping silently off her jawline. She stared at the ground, stepping carefully over the knots of twisting roots. Soundlessly, her shoulders shook in sobs. He knew she was crying for about an hour, but he did not know how to handle it. A part of him wanted to tell her whatever she was crying about was not that bad. Of course, that was another product of the damn forest.

Doubt welled in him again, drowning all thought and reason. She was a strong girl, but would she have enough strength to make it through the forest? He could feel his own might filter out of his body. If he could not make it, being mutated, how could she?

She stumbled once more and gripped his hand tightly. It surprised him how hard she could squeeze his bare hand. A normal girl should not have had that amount of force in her tiny body. He knew what caused it, and he snarled at the thought. It was another testament of what Viktor had done to her and the lasting effects that it would have on her life.

An anger spread over him swiftly, muddling his mind with its poisonous thoughts. Once more, he was appalled by the sheer intensity of the emotion. Somewhere inside of him, he understood it was not just the forest. The woods magnified the sensations like looking through a piece of curved glass. No, he felt for the girl. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the unusual sentiment into the pit of his stomach. He wondered how many more times he would have to deny something he felt for her existed. Would it be easier to just accept it and deal with the consequence? That worked so well before, he thought, bitterly. It was not natural for him to become so protective of someone so quickly. The witcher was a loner by nature, preferring his solitude. All witchers favored their isolation. To think that he cared for a human child so quickly disturbed him. However, he could not say that the girl was like any of the human children that he had known before. She did not run from him, screaming in fear. Laelithra cared for him, cleansing his wounds as someone who looked up to him. In his heart, he knew she wanted him to be something that he could not be. The girl was the complete opposite of all he knew. Because of her devotion, Laelithra was inseparable from him.

She lifted her arm and swiped at her cheeks. A sneer overtook her angelic face, contorting it into an unrecognizable mass of emotions. Laelithra was embarrassed at her display of ardent feelings. He could not understand the myriad emotions flowing through her. With a jerk of her shoulders, she sighed and swore roughly. "I was lying, Geralt," she mumbled. "The boy that that ... that ... monster took is my brother. Viktor told me he was dead like monsters, but I could feel him. I knew he was alive."

Geralt remained silent for a time, not sure how to respond. He didn't know if Laelithra wanted consoling, but he knew he was not the best person to give it. Geralt was not one for grieving, though he pitied the girl for what she had been through in her short life. Death was a constant in Geralt's life, and it would be after Laelithra was gone. It still did not help him with how to comfort her.

"She took Hare," she whispered, vehemently. "and she's going to kill him. He's my brother. I was protecting him. I failed." Laelithra looked up, staring into the eyes of the witcher. Hers burned brightly with rage and grief.

Despite everything, Geralt did not know what to say. He was sure that the vampire was not going to kill her brother. In fact, he would gamble all of his orens on that fact. The bruxa had something darker planned. However, the problem was that Geralt did not know what she was planning. He did not know what to say to appease her. All that he could offer was a promise of vengeance. "Those monsters will pay for what they've done," Geralt muttered, "to you and your family. They will answer for their wrongdoings, as Viktor has. I promise you, they will die for what they've done."

She did not reply to him. Instead, she removed her hand and wrapped her arm around his waist. Laelithra leaned on him, hissing in pain. Moving her hand against him, she encouraged him to lean on her. Even though he tried to hide his own agony, the child saw right through his act. How could someone like her know him like she did? Everything was happening too fast for him.

It alarmed him to think that she could see through his facade. There were few people who could do what she did. It always took them quite some time. This little girl was able to do so in a couple of months. Why was she so special? He shuddered as sweat rolled down his chest, losing itself in the matted, wiry chest hair.

As Geralt and Laelithra walked, several rotting leaves fell from the branches and landed before them. They scattered along the path, dotting the landscape like rotten carcases. It sank his spirits more. He just wanted to get out of the forest and seek help for Laelithra. Who would help her knowing she traveled with Geralt? Perhaps, he could leave her at the edge of the village. Of course, he knew the folly in that. She was foolish enough to follow him.

"You think my father was a monster," she retorted, fiercely. It would seem that she was even brave enough to stand up to him. If he was not in such pain, he would have found the act amusing. "Father did nothing wrong. He was teaching me how to survive."

Geralt could not contain his annoyance; a combination of his condition and the oppressive forest surrounding him made him physically unable to. The witcher wanted to shake the child, to make her see the folly of her words. Viktor was not teaching her how to survive. While the elder witcher did not know the consequences, he was experimenting on a girl. On top of that, he was doing it without the other witchers knowing. If there was nothing wrong with what he was doing, he would have had no reason to hide it. There would have been no reason to steal some of the herbs and the formulae.

He could feel her shake with rage against him. Each jolt from the child sent crippling torture screaming through his body.

"I'm going to be completely honest with you, Laelithra," Geralt grunted as they continued trudging through the undergrowth. "Those herbs, mushrooms, and grasses that Viktor was feeding you could have killed you. We don't know the effect that they have on girls. It was foolish of him to do that, and you are lucky to be alive. He may have been teaching you how to survive, but what he did was wrong."

For a second, Geralt felt his body crumple with distress. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled off his nose. Pain flared in his gut again, blinding him from his thoughts for a moment. He knew his wound was infected. With every movement, the agony screamed out inside of him anew. How much longer did he have before he collapsed?

She glared at him. Anger lurked in her gaze, tarnishing his concept of the girl. For a moment, he was not sure if she was going to flee from him. There was something that he did not recognize in her look. Fear. Yes, there were many that feared the witcher. Children ran screaming, cats ran after they hissed at him, and others feared what they did not understand. None of that was ever present in the girl. Why now? Did he care enough to chase after her? The question plagued him, settling like a brick in his stomach.

He continued to walk with her, her arm behind him, clasping his side. While her body dwarfed his own, he marveled at how natural it felt. It disturbed him how easy he could become like Viktor to her. Geralt did not want that. Trying to comfort himself, he reasoned that she was not his destiny.

The silence surrounding them grew thick and oppressive, pulling them down like quicksand. Geralt could feel the icy numbness grip him; he was going into shock. He knew it would not be long before his energy waned to such a point that he would simply not be able to take another step. At that point, he would collapse, and Laelithra would be left to her own devices. While she was resourceful, she did not have the ability to adapt like a witcher. She was strong, but she did not have enough strength to beat out the inevitable. If he fell, she, doubtless, would not survive on her own in that cursed place. The silence was eroding his will like rainwater running over sandstone.

As they struggled to go onward, he leaned more on her. Geralt gathered her closer in his embrace until their sides were touching. She was having trouble walking next to him without stumbling.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "He must have been like a father to you."

Laelithra looked away to hide the emotion in her eyes, keeping her gaze on the path ahead. She was like him in many ways. The girl was a brave, strong child. Most of the time, she was not afraid to get her hands dirty. Yet, there were things that she hid. Like him, she was afraid of her emotions and refused to acknowledge that they existed. Viktor beat those out of her, he was sure of it. Laelithra found him to be a confidant, a strange friend in a strange time. No one counted on his opinion for anything, no one until this child.

"He may have had the best intentions for what he did to you," Geralt continued, "but that doesn't make it right."

She exhaled softly, tightening her hold around him. He could smell the grim aura wafting off of her. It permeated the air and reminded the witcher of the orphans that frequented cities. After all, it was what Laelithra was now. The child was a waif cast adrift because of the war.

They lapsed into silence. He knew in his heart that she would not accept his apology. When it came to women (adult or otherwise), he was wrong with everything he did. Laelithra would be no different. Geralt understood that as he understood the nature of the one he promised to destroy. There would be no pleasing a woman.

Laelithra still did not move her gaze from the path. "Don't say sorry," she told him. Her voice barely came out as a whisper. It cracked midway through. "Father fed those to me. He did not know if they would kill me or not. He told me Hare snapped his neck on the path he made in the woods. Father did not tell me that you or any others existed. He said he was the last of his kin. Yes, he did those things, but he was still my daddy."

Again, Geralt felt the sting of pity settle deep in the pit of his stomach. She thought of Viktor as her father. It was exceedingly strange for a child to view any witcher as such. Witchers were vagabonds. They did not have time for children. The children that they did have they got through the Law of Surprise. Those children were mutated to become like Geralt and the others. A disturbing thought erupted inside of his mind. Did he take Viktor's place, he wondered. Is that the reason that she insisted that she travel with him? He hoped not. Their parting would be all the more painful for her, if they ever made it out of that cursed forest.

Where would he take her, he thought to himself. No one would take a child from a witcher, not even if he paid them for it. They would treat her no better than a beast. No, his mind shouted at him. They would treat her no better than a witcher not needed. She would become abused, raped, or possibly, worse. He could always take her back to the temple, he supposed, but he suspected she would refuse it again. It was simply too dangerous for her to be with him, just as he insisted. Somehow, he would have to make her accept that.

…...

They continued to walk, stumbling over the undergrowth. The more hours that slipped by, the more distress the witcher became. An ominous urgency came over him, clouding his mind to the blind need to escape the forest. He slowed as he was barely able to lift his feet. Geralt felt like he was moving in sticky mud, and there was no way out.

Laelithra gazed at the path, looking down at her feet. It was looking increasingly bad for both of them. She tripped most of the time, stumbling over her own feet. In fact, it was through Geralt's own sheer will that she did not tumble to the forest floor. Every time she faltered in her steps, he would reach down and grab her. Looking at her, he knew it was a bad omen. They had no more paste, and Geralt was too weak to look for some more. Geralt wondered if they would make it out alive or if they would simply perish in that fetid never ending forest.

Beside him, her stomach rumbled. She grasped at her stomach with her other hand. Specks of the dried paste came off of her, sticking on her fingers.

The witcher sighed roughly, "Quit picking at it."

She looked up at him. The color had gone from her cheeks again. Her lips were cracked and dots of blood dotted the crevices. "I starding," she whined, remingding Geralt that she was only a young child.

"You should have had more of the rabbit," Geralt muttered, trying to keep himself focused on the path ahead. Roots looped up treacherously from the forest floor, grasping at their feet and trying to trip them up. One false step could end in injury. They could ill afford any more injuries in their conditions. He doubted they were going to make it, anyway.

He did not have the energy, nor did they have the time, for him to forage or hunt for food. Every second spent in that forest was a second closer to death. He dared not delay their escape long enough to gather food. It was a double-edged sword. While he would not veer off their chosen path, Geralt and Laelithra were losing strength rapidly from starvation. Eating would help their wounds, providing much needed nutrients if they chose to stop to forage.

Despite the urgency of the child's whining, he did not have the power to spend hunting. He knew what would happen if they both sat down to eat. It was very likely that neither of them would move again. They would both die in that forgotten corner of the world. Their flesh and bones would become meals for whatever haunted the woods. Perhaps, it was what whatever will was influencing his train of thought was planning. With a witcher unable to protect the her, Laelithra would become easy prey for it.

Geralt clenched his teeth, feeling the light pressure. He was alarmed that he did not even have the strength to snarl anymore. His prowess slowly ebbed away. Shaking his head, he limped onward and fought for his life against invisible foes. No, it was not so much for him as it was for Laelithra. The girl would not be able to make it out of the forest alive if not for him.

Breathing in deeply, he tried to center his thoughts. They raced through him like wild horses on a stampede. The voices in his head whispered, laughing and taunting him. Laelithra was going to die, and there was not one thing that he could do about it. He was not immune to fatigue and infection. While he healed faster than a normal human, he was still mortal. Geralt would die.

As his hopes dwindled, Geralt's foot was caught by a root that jutted up from beneath a thick blanket of dead leaves. His optimism faltered, falling into the very pit of his hopeless mind. He fell forward from his own momentum, twisting his leg in the process. Pain erupted in his foot, screaming in its ascent up his leg. Geralt cried out loudly, unable to hold the horrendous torture inside. Pulling Laelithra with him, he plunged to the forest floor. Dirt, dust, and leaves flew in a puff of debris around them, cocooning them in their silent embrace.

Hearing a sharp crack of bone and a distinctive feminine scream, he thought he had broken whatever the bruxa hadn't in the girl. She lay still next to him, barely breathing. Horror welled up inside of the witcher, making his heart beat faster. He had failed her after everything that they had been through.

Spending nearly the last bit of his energy, he rolled onto his back. He could feel the twigs jab him, cutting the flesh. Tiny stinging agony erupted over his back as if he was being eaten alive by ants. It almost took more will than he had left just to breathe. With every breath, fire erupted inside of him. Geralt felt like he was in the blacksmith's furnace, being burned alive. The witcher lay there gasping for breath, sucking in and coughing hard. Finally, his eyes found Laelithra's.

"Get up," she whispered, hoarsely. Her mouth moved, and bits of gore stuck to her cracked lips. Even though she was almost laying on top of him, he barely heard her. As if they were separated by a great distance, he strained to hear her. Dirt smudged her face, muddling her pallid complexion. Blood trickled down her cheek, giving the soil a glossy sheen. Taking small, quick breaths, her tiny chest rose and fell.

Where did Laelithra get the strength that she did, he wondered. It was not the first time that he wondered such a thing. Throughout her ordeal with Jhaer, he was sure that she knew he would come and get her. No, she knew that he would not rescue her. Geralt never saved anyone. When he did so, it was for vengeance or coin. Yet, the girl knew he would come. She was a special child that the world refused to knowledge. Perhaps, if she would have been given a chance, she would have been a sorceress. Of course, she would never have that chance. He sneered.

Summoning a strength that Geralt never knew she possessed, she struggled to sit up. Her breath hammered out of her mouth, washing over him. She hissed in pain, clutching at her stomach. Laelithra must have been in terrible agony. Despite that, she had a will that most her age did not. From biting down on her lip, blood leaked out between her teeth. He knew she would not scream. The girl was too proud.

He could not obey her because his leg would refuse to do what he wished. Geralt knew when he was close to dying, and this was it. The witcher just wished to lay down and give up. Death would come for both Laelithra and himself. Instead of dying by fangs and talons, it was a treacherous root. Death from a predator would come for Laelithra. They would rip the child apart, and the witcher would be powerless to do anything to stop it.

"Don't die," she commanded, hoarsely. Her eyes burned brightly with life, contradicting the feelings that Geralt was having with the situation. Tears raced down her cheeks, mixing with the blood and dirt. She would not allow him to die. He understood that as well. The girl was as stubborn as a mule. "Don't leave me, too."

Geralt tried to sit up. His leg cried out in protest at any movement. He was worried that he had re-injured his old wound. Sweat beaded on his face as he looked over at Laelithra. It ran down his gaunt cheeks.

"You're not going to die," she said stubbornly. Laelithra reached over, taking her hand. He read the determination in her eyes. The gritty resolution drove her. There was something authoritative in her voice. Any other little girl would be crying hard because she would not know what to do. She was different. Instead of sobbing, she squared her shoulders and gazed down at him.

His body begged him to lay down and give himself over to eternity. It wanted him to forget about Laelithra. Despite everything that he did to help her, she was going to die. When her captor had taken her through those woods, he had sealed both of their fates. Anger and pity mixed together in his breast, swirling around as if a great hurricane raged inside of him. They were going to die, and there would be nothing that he could do about it.

No, he screamed, silently. He might die before they came out of this, but he would see to getting Laelithra to safety first. Geralt had come to terms a very long time ago that he was going to die a violent death. His demise was caused by a monster cloaked as a boy. Yet, it was not Laelithra's time. It wouldn't be as long as the witcher of Rivia drew breath. Summoning strength he did not even realize he had left, Geralt lifted himself into a sitting position.

As he slowly brought himself to his feet, his joints screamed. He balled his hands into fists, blocking out most of the torment flowing through his body. Searing sweat trickled down his face, stung his eyes, and lost itself in the grooves of the deep set scars on his face. Paroxysmal agony shot through him as he put weight on his once-injured leg. It raced up his body and clutched his heart, forcing him to cry out in pain. His guttural grunt rang out clearly.

Laelithra shrunk into the bed of debris. Twigs and dirt surrounded her. The scratches to her cheek broadened the look of terror swimming in her gaze. Her eyes widened, revealing the fear that coursed through her body. Never before had Laelithra heard him react so; she must have realized the amount of pain he would have to be in to be effected so harshly by it. She must have thought he was going to die.

After a moment, the torment subsided. He was relieved to know that he had not re-injured his leg. Gingerly, he helped Laelithra to her feet and made a quick assessment of her new injuries.

She swayed on her feet. A smattering of blood and dirt was on her face, smearing her flesh. Lifting her arm, Laelithra wiped the fresh blood from her lip. It daubed the course fabric covering her upper arm. The shirt hung off of her, resembling a nightgown. As he realized that she was not as injured as he thought due to their fall, relief swept over him. Again, the doubt told him not to get too optimistic. Even if she was alright at that moment, they both were going to die.

"I'm not going to die," he said quietly, with no inflection. "You just worry about yourself."

Before setting off again, the witcher looked around, trying to regain his bearings. Their tumble to the ground made him unsure of which way to go. The trees around him clustered together in a circle around the clearing. He felt confused as if the forest was inviting them back the way they had come. Geralt knew that to lose his way in that place would be a grievous mistake. If they somehow could make it out (which was unlikely), going back the way they came would seal their fate.

It was then that he first noticed their macabre surroundings. Hanging from tree branches and littering the forest floor all around them were bones: human bones. They glinted in the dappled sunlight, shining like lost treasures. The bones were small, mostly made up of crushed ribs and femurs. On several, jagged cracks soared up the sternum, branching out on the ivory bone. There must have been fifty bones there. No, he thought, there must have been hundreds. They surrounded them, barricading Laelithra and Geralt in a frightening, morbid fort.

With great effort, he bent down and picked up a long bone with large knobs on both ends. It was the thigh bone of a human. Several large fractures ran along its edges. There was no flesh clinging to the old bone. It was devoid of cartilage and any type of skin. Dashing along the fractures were straight lines as if something cleaved the flesh from it.

Startling revelation sank into the witcher, making him shudder. As if the bone grew very hot to the touch, he dropped it. It landed with a clatter, jangling the others it landed on top of. They were the bones of children. These were the remains of all those children that went missing. His eyes widened, and his gaze snapped towards the trees surrounding them.

Laelithra continued to hold the sleeve against her cheek, attempting to stop the slight blood oozing from the scratches to her face. She stood next to Geralt as she resembled a tree sapling being blown in the wind. The cloth blotted the blood, mixing it with the tears that steamed down her face. Finally, she understood how close to death he was and the urgency of his journey. "No," she challenged. Conviction rose in her voice. "I am going to worry about you. Get used to it."

At once, he understood the nature of the thing that pursued them and why it was placing doubts in the mind of the witcher. It was a child killer, preferring to engorge itself on the entire flesh and organs of its victims. He was not in danger as much as the little girl was. There was one thing that he vowed. She would not lay among the broken bones. Geralt would fight the creature until the last of his strength was drained from him. Never taking his gaze off the edges of the forest, he stood.

Geralt waved his hand urgently before Laelithra. "Be quiet," he commanded in a harsh whisper. Assuming that that was the lair of some child-eating monster, Geralt did not want to draw attention to their presence with unnecessary noise. Had he been uninjured and alone, Geralt would have waited in that spot for whatever beast resided there. He would have brought the carcass to the village for coin. Surely, they would have noticed some of their children had gone missing. Some, his mind taunted him. There was more than _some_ of their children that had gone missing. Yet, he could not do anything in the condition he was in. He could only slink away and hope that the beast was out hunting and would not return for some time. After all, Geralt had the safety of the child to think about.

She frowned at his remark, but remained silent as they cautiously made their way through the bone-littered forest. The place was a grim reminder of the reason that there were witchers.

He did take some hope from the grisly discovery, however. They may not have been far from the edge of the forest, unless the bones were carried far into it. Geralt knew that it meant certain death if they were in the middle of it. Both Laelithra and he could not take much more. Glancing at Laelithra, he hoped the former was true.

Her brow narrowed as she clenched her teeth. He knew she was weakening, but he marveled at her tenacity. She had guts, and a reserved strength that he did not understand. By now, he would have thought he would have to carry her. Laelithra should have passed out. Instead, she put her tiny arm around the waist of the witcher as he limped. Despite the pain, the girl was concerned about him. The only hope he had left was that her bones did not become the newest addition to those scattered about that part of the forest.

Finally, they crossed the dismal lair. Geralt's hopes soared, thinking they would be met with the road. He would be able to recuperate from his weakness, and Laelithra would be able to heal from her injuries. They were not going to die. All the doubts coursing through his mind drifted from him. Again, he told himself they were not going to pass on.

His hopes sank again. The two were met with thick undergrowth on the other side. It would seem that whatever lurked in the forest did not want them to leave. Barbs and thorns jutted out, blocking their escape. Yet, he would know what would happen if they stayed there. Both dived into it. Thorns grasped at her clothing and his skin and leggings, pulling at them like the hands of the dead trying to drag them into the underworld. Progress was slow, and their energy was waning. Geralt felt stretched thin like the skin of a drum. The only thing that brought hope to the pair was the meager sunlight that finally streamed weakly through the canopy above.

The danger had passed, and his companion seemed to sense it. She was good at listening to him. It never ceased to impress him how well she listened. He was sure others of her age would have continued to talk and brought the monster down upon them. Laelithra shut her mouth, letting him lean against her as they made their way on.

Both did not have much of anything to say. In fact, they remained silent as they reflected on what they saw in the lair. How many children had the beast actually claimed? Truly, Geralt did not know. He wished that he was alone so he could go back and collect money on whatever it was. What exactly was it? The witcher did not know that too. Various beasts that could be the cause for such destruction raced through his thoughts. There was not one that he could settle on. Whatever it was had enchanted the entire forest. He did not want to stay and find out with Laelithra beside him. As they walked on further, he was unsure if the thing was either hunting them or the doubts and forgetfulness were a product of its environment.

"Geralt," she asked again, turning her face up at him. Scratches lined her cheek. One scratch had ended right beneath her right eye. If the twig would have gone any further, he was sure that the injuries would have been worse than they were. They were minor abrasions, and he was sure that they would heal well. "Were those animal bones?"

Geralt shook his head somberly as they continued to fight their way forward. Some would have lied to the child, letting her believe that there was no danger to her, letting her be blissful in her ignorance. Viktor had not allowed her to be ignorant to the ways of the world. It was one of the only things that he agreed with the elder witcher on. Geralt was not the type to allow her to hold onto any illusions of the world. After seeing the things he had and doing the things he had done, after being the target of ridicule and spite, he could not help but be cynical. Yet, it was not cynicism; it was reality.

She leaned against him, taking shelter in his tall body. It was a funny thing to see. Laelithra could not have been more than three foot four inches. She was a twig of a girl. From an outside glance, she would have been a normal peasant child. On most occasions, she would skip beside the witcher. There were times at their campsite that she would sing as she ate. Yet, the accepted societal norms could not have been further from the truth with her. Laelithra had the heart that most humanity lacked. She was loyal to her brother and caring of Geralt. In fact, he knew she counted him as one of her friends. At least, he hoped he did not take the position of her father in her eyes. As they worked at finding a path through the underbrush, it was an ironic sight to behold: the adult witcher leaning on Laelithra for support, the girl bracing herself against Geralt so she did not stumble. Of course, it would have been a strange sight if the commoners would stay their rocks first.

He decided he would give her the best gift that he could. Geralt would regale her with the truth. "No," he said, "they were the bones of children. There is something evil in this forest, some perversion of nature that deserves nothing more than death by a witcher's blade."

Once more, they lapsed into silence for a time, focusing on finding the path through the thick thatch work of grasping undergrowth. It was an arduous task because thorns sank into his forearms and sides like stingers from bees. He shook off the pricks of pain, focusing on Laelithra.

She panted beside him, making hisses of pain occasionally. Her eyes still burned with determination. "I can't wait to get out," she broke their silence. "This place scares me. Please let it be far away."

"We can't be far from the end of this forest," Geralt muttered weakly. "It can't go on forever." He meant that he, too, could not go on forever. With each staggered step, he was growing weaker. His body called out for him to just give up and get it over with. However, he kept those thoughts to himself. He did not want to let Laelithra lose hope. As long as she was hopeful, he had the will to get her to safety. At that point, he could collapse lifeless on the ground. If she would lose hope, what point would there be in continuing

…...

As they pressed onward, Geralt began to be plagued by a thought that gnawed at the corners of his mind. Weighing heavily on him, it threatened to engulf his entire mind. It was a foreign thought, something that he had never considered before that point. He was becoming resigned to the fact that they would never make it out of the forest alive. Geralt understood the significance of what would happen if he was to fall. Laelithra would be left alone if he were to fall into the darkness that threatened him, leaving her to her own devices. He was sickened at the thought of what grim beasts would come scurrying out of the underbrush to tear her apart. The thought that was trying to force its way into the fore of his mind was this; put the child out of her misery. He could save her the suffering that was sure to come at his passing by ending it all in a moment.

Gazing around him, he knew his presence kept most of the beasts at bay. They followed behind him and hoped that the witcher would trip again or make some other fatal mistake. Despite his injury, the monsters did not want to take on the witcher. Even as wounded as he was, he was still a force to be reckoned with. As long as he drew breath, he would defend Laelithra as best as he knew how. There would be no creatures to tear her limb from limb.

She continued to walk beside him, supporting the weight that he allowed her to bear. If he had completely leaned all of his weight on her, she would fall over. The girl was strong for her age, but she was still a child. There could be only so much she could take. Laelithra could not brace the entire weight of the witcher.

As his energy waned, Geralt was consumed by the thoughts of ending Laelithra's suffering. It was as if the forest had suggested it. No, he thought, the forest demanded the sacrifice of the little girl. Like a suffocating haze, it pressed its indomitable will down upon the witcher. He could feel himself teetering on the edge of a breaking point, staring off the cliff into darkening oblivion below. His will wavered, making him snarl in his agony.

Did it have to come to that, he thought. It would be over quickly for her, and she would not suffer. As it was, she could barely walk. In her condition, she could not escape anything that darted from the thatch to lacerate and devour her. Laelithra was very stubborn, and he doubted that she would leave his body. She would sit by his corpse until her own macabre fate came to her. Geralt could spare her from such a fate. In fact, it would be over so fast that Laelithra would not feel a thing.

He raised his hand, gripping the baldric across his chest. It would only be a few moments before she would be at peace. She would not have to worry about the cult that would dog her footsteps, the assassin who abused her in the worst way possible, or the bruxa who used her like a bottle of wine. The buzzing in his ears reached a crescendo, overpowering every other sound in the forest. The woods demanded a sacrifice, an appeasement for the gifts that it had given him. He scowled fiercely as he knew he had to ease her suffering.

Yet, he could not bring himself to do it. He would rather die himself than to take the life of an innocent, and he very well may have been on that path. Geralt smiled grimly, shaking his head. Strands of his white hair fell over his headband. Even if it meant an end to her agony, he would not take her life. No, he swore to her that he would protect it.

As if guessing his thoughts, she looked up at him. Her eyes widened in an emotion that was there and faded away since they entered the forest. Fear blended with betrayal. Like a slap to the face, he realized that the terror was not of anything around them. She was frightened of him. Even though during most of the journey through the woodland she acted like herself, Laelithra was not. The child was there with him, but she had not returned to him. Laelithra ran her tongue over her upper lip, nervously. "Geralt?" she asked, quietly.

"What?" Geralt muttered with barely the strength to speak. It had been hours since they had spoken anything. Hunger clutched at their stomachs as the thorny barbs grasped at their clothes, hair, and skin. Despair circled around them, cloaking both in its miserable robe.

With a sharp realization, he knew what had happened. He had failed the child. There would be no escaping that forest. They would be two more skeletons added to the countless collected by that cursed place. Behind it all, the witcher felt an irony. He'd always thought he'd meet his end in some cave or tomb, torn to pieces by a monster. After all, no witcher died warm and safe in his bed. In a way, he was ripped apart by a beast. Though infection was slowly claiming him, a monster tore his mind to pieces. That monster was the forest itself. He no longer cared where the will of that place came from, but it had a will and exerted it on all who dared to enter beneath its boughs. It drew monsters to do its bidding. What could be behind it all, he did not dare consider. Something so evil with such power. . .witcher's work, but suicidal.

"I'm scared," Laelithra replied in a ragged whisper.

Geralt turned to face her, and he felt the world spin around him. A kaleidoscope of colors exploded before his eyes. Though he felt no pain, he dropped to his knees. In his rational mind, he knew he was well into shock. The lack of pain confirmed it. Without being able to summon the strength to speak, he could not dictate directions to Laelithra on what to do. He fell forward, stirring up an explosion of dead leaves and dirt.

Before darkness took him, he was dimly aware of a feminine shriek. He could barely feel the girl's tiny hands on his shoulders as she shook him. Briefly, his eyes met her terrified ones. Silently, he urged her to save herself. In the pressing blackness that threatened to overtake him, he knew that she would not. Laelithra had doomed herself by becoming a witcher's friend. She was stubborn, and the end would come for her sooner rather than later.

He breathed raggedly, fighting to get up. Geralt summoned all the will he had left, trying to move. In this instance, his body would not listen to him. The witcher felt nothing. There was no pain, no joy, no loss, and no fear. His struggles were in vain; he could not move. Soon, the bleak gloom spread across the entirely of his mind. Feeling nothing, darkness took him.


	13. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

"Geralt!" she shrieked beside him. Fear snaked up her belly, constricting around her body. It held her tightly and refused to let go. Frantically, she pawed at anything she could grasp. She wrapped her hands around his large bicep and pulled on his arm.

His body slid along the bristly carpet of the forest. Thin, elongated scratches appeared on the sides of his arms. A thorn reached out for him, hooking itself deeply into the flesh of his right shoulder. Crimson rivulets trickled down his pale skin.

"Get up," she cried. The girl was not going let herself be to reduce to tears. She was stronger than that. Her father had taught her to deaden her emotions, ignoring anything that would hurt her. If she was unemotional, then nothing could effect her. After all, it was how he had gone through life. There was nothing that caused her father to drop his emotionless countenance.

Laelithra frantically opened the pouch connected to his baldric. She remembered how he had said that he kept herbs and alcohol there to make his witcher's medicines. He had told her not to worry because he was not going to die. The witcher could not die, she reasoned with herself. It was impossible. Her father had abandoned her when death called to him. Geralt could not. No, he would not.

Pursing her lips, she looked at the herbs and body parts arranged in his pouch. There were so few, and none were any that she recognized by their shape. If she handled any, she knew she could die if any of their oils leaked on her skin. He had told her that some would kill her and heal him.

Flipping the top over, she latched the pouch. It was too much of a chance. If he had some of the flowers that her father made her practice with, then she could have made something for him. Nothing looked familiar, and she was not going to risk harming him further.

Looking gently down at the witcher, she found it strange that he was so different from her father. While there were many times he swallowed his pain so she would not be affected by worry, there were times when he could not. Traveling with each other gave them an insight into the other. He worried about her enough to chase her into her own hell, and he killed himself for it.

No! her mind screeched at her. She lifted her small hands and tightened them around the leather straps of his baldric. The material felt cool and worn smooth, almost soothing. There were many times when the simple ash and leather smell had comforted her after the nightmares that plagued her. Laelithra could not allow him to be gone.

She would just have to continue on, Laelithra thought to herself resolutely. Her hands slipped from the leather, making the witcher fall back to the ground. His head bounced against the dirt, causing thorns and dried branches to tangle in his hair. He did not even make any protests.

Her small hands clasped around his again, and, leaning backward, she summoned strength from deep down within her, strength even she didn't know she had. She was able to move Geralt slowly, in short bursts, though she was sure that the old dead brambles on the ground were shredding the skin on his back. It was necessary, though. The only alternative was death. After going through everything she had and Geralt's attempt to rescue her, Laelithra would be ashamed if it ended in death, for either of them. Viktor would have been ashamed of her if he could have seen her at that moment.

Sweat beaded on her arms, coating the tiny hairs. With each small step forward, she clenched her teeth together and grunted. The veins in her head felt like they were going to burst and shower her in her own blood again. By looking at the lean witcher, she did not think he was as heavy as he was. He carried himself lightly, evidence of his honed skills. Presently, Laelithra had to carry him when he was completely dead weight.

She heard the leather strain, threatening to tear. However, it too was necessary. Without the leverage, she could not move the witcher. If the witcher had to lay there, one or both of them would surely die. One by one, the latches of his baldric started to come undone. One of them snapped open completely. When Geralt woke, he would be angry with her. The witcher's fury was always simmering. It was very rare that he was explosive with her. At the very least, he was not like Viktor. He did not use his fists and feet when he was angry. In this, too, Viktor would have been disappointed.

Small spheres of water splashed down on Geralt's scarred chest. It ran down the curve of his nipple, losing itself in the mat of hair. Presently, even Melitele was conspiring against her. Of course, she would. Laelithra believed in no gods or goddesses. The only faith she had was in her companions and her father's blade. Even Geralt replaced her father there. Now, both of their swords were unavailable to her.

Raising her hand to her face, she realized with a start that she was crying. Tears were streaming down her face as she started to pull Geralt inch by inch again. The thought of Geralt's and Viktor's disapproval was her breaking point. She had let everyone down: her father, her brother, Geralt.

She was alone in the forest. The trees seemed to cluster together as the brambles blocked off her exit. Whatever lurked in the forest would lay claim to the child. It would scurry from the underbrush or pounce on her from above. Her fate was sealed, but Laelithra could not let Geralt die.

Again, she grunted as she pulled him further another inch. Her muscles cried out again, refusing to go any more with Geralt. The strength had left her body, and she was resigned to the fact that she would die.

"Stop right there," a harsh, clear voice sounded behind her. She was caught by surprised and completely unaware. She had not been paying attention to where they were going with her back to that direction. All that mattered to her was to get Geralt to safety. She released his baldric straps and turned around.

Nearly, twenty yards away stood an elf. His long, dirty hair was tucked behind his pointed ears. Tendrils fell against the sides of his face. His sharp eyes stared at her, a bow drawn at his cheek, staring down the length of an arrow at Laelithra.

...

Laelithra stared at the elf. She did not know what to expect. While most humans would have been instantly afraid of the other being because of what they were, she was taught to see past the physical mask. All creatures had good and evil inside of them, balancing in the grand scheme of life. Most of the time, the evil side controlled and allowed everyone to commit some of the most heinous crimes that humanity would know. Men raped women, defiling priests. Woman murdered their abusive husbands, but they did not profit from the act. Children were put out on the street and forced into a life of thievery and prostitution. It was the only world that the girl knew.

The elf was clad in the colors of the forest. Patchwork brown was sewn into the worn leather. He narrowed his brow, glaring at the human girl before him. Laelithra did not understand the history between elves and humans, and she did not understand the bitter hatred between the races. His arrow did not quiver, betraying his experience with the bow.

Electricity jolted through the space between them. She knew the way the world view witchers. It was her fault that they were in that particular predicament. If she would have never left their campsite, she would have never been captured. Geralt wouldn't have had to face the assassin. He would not be hurt and lying unconscious at her side.

Geralt had taught her to be neutral on a few occasions. His views differed from Viktor's on that subject, too. She had to slaughter the hatred she bore for everyone who had taken her brother and others from her, but she did not need to be indifferent. It was something that Geralt preached. He drilled it inside of her head, expecting her to learn from it. Yet, it was not something he followed. Despite his speeches, emotions confused, and at times, frightened him. Often, he would react from his feelings.

"No," she cried out, suddenly. Reacting on her confusion, she would do what Geralt would do. She could not deaden her hatred for the world's societal ways. The elf would kill the only one in that cruel world that could relate to her. Laelithra leaped over the prone witcher, shielding his body with her own. The arrow would penetrate her, but her body would stop it from harming Geralt. "Don't kill him! Please!"

Quickly and silently, the elf was directly in front of Laelithra.

She bravely didn't budge from her position, protecting the unconscious Geralt. She would not let anyone harm him because he had rescued her on many occasions. In many ways, she owed Geralt her life. A life for a life, she thought, grimly.

"He looks to be dead already," the elf stated bluntly," and you look to be nearly there yourself." She felt fear and denial take over her body. He knelt down in front of her, studying both her and the prone witcher. "What are you doing in this forest?"

"Trying to get out," Laelithra answered without fear, "and Geralt is not dead! He can't be dead! He's just sleeping!"

For a moment, a strange look of recognition passed over the elf's face. Laelithra was confused by it. She had no idea just how famous the man she had been traveling with was. To her, Geralt was just Geralt. The little girl could see through the emotionless disguise he presented to others.

"That is _the White Wolf_?" the elf asked in disbelief.

Laelithra shrugged, unfamiliar with the name. There were a few times in town that Geralt was called by another name. However, it was usually used in a derogatory sense. From what she could tell, the names did not bother the witcher.

"Vattghern? Gwynnbleid? Geralt of Rivia?" he continued. When she nodded, the man let out a sigh. "Can you walk? I will see to moving him. The others are not far from here. If he is not dead, he is close to it. You are lucky that a medic travels with us."

"You will really help him?" she asked the elf. Her gaze lifted from the ground, meeting his gaze bravely. She was only known to be fearful in certain situations. This male did not seem like he would hurt her or the witcher. Laelithra did not know for sure. If she could stop them, she would not let anyone harm the witcher.

He gaped at her. She did not know how strange it was for a child to be traveling with the witcher or any of his kin. All she had known was her father, Viktor. Laelithra had traveled with him for as long as she could remember. To judge someone on the outside was as foolish as wielding a weapon by its blade.

"Hmm?" the elf asked her. "Yes, we will try to help him. I will tell you that I think that there is not much that we will be able to do."

She moved off of Geralt, standing slowly. Her body protested any movement. Ivory heat sliced before her eyes, blurring her vision momentary. For a brief moment, she felt like she would swoon. The feeling terrorized her. After everything that Geralt went through to rescue her, she would not leave that world until he was safe.

As the elf bent down, grunted, and placed his hands within the witcher's armpits, Geralt's head swung downward and made his chin rub against his collarbone. It swung slowly from side to side. The hilt of his sword poked the elf's cheek.

"He won't die," she snapped at him. Laelithra bent down, grasped the hilt of the witcher's silver sword. The blade had tumbled to the ground, with her father's silver sword, when Geralt had finally collapsed. She felt guilt rise inside of her again, coloring her actions. Cradling both silver blades to her chest, she knew how important they were. Viktor had told her the significance of his weapons, and he had forbidden her to touch them. If Geralt awoke without his sword, he would have been angry. "He can't. He promised to protect me."

The elf struggled moving Geralt, clearly not expecting the witcher to be so heavy. He laid Geralt gently back down in the undergrowth, grunting in displeasure and discomfort.

"He's dead weight," the elf complained. "It won't do to carry him like that. I'll fashion a gurney for him with some branches and my cloak. Are you sure you can walk? Here, drink this." He handed her a skin of water, which she quickly took a greedy drink of. It was a risk to drink something given to one by a stranger, but those were desperate times. "What's your name?"

"Laelithra," the girl peeped, gasping from her engorgement of water.

"I am Chireadan," the elf responded. "I know Geralt. That is why I am helping you. There's nothing to fear from me. Stay here; I need to find two sturdy branches to use. I'll tie my cloak around them, and I should be able to drag him behind me with him upon it."

"Why would I fear you?" she asked, inquisitively. Because she did not have the disdain for elves bred into her, she truly did not know what he meant. In a way, it made the presence of strangers more difficult. Many could take advantage of her. When she was traveling with her father, few would approach her. She understood that the citizens of the world did not wish to include her father in it, and they ignored her for the most part. The same had happened when she was traveling with Geralt.

_She stood beside Geralt, cold and damp. It had rained that day, coating the horse, witcher, and herself in the heavenly tears. Her stomach rumbled, and she wished for some food. While she preferred the fresh variety, she would have eaten anything that Geralt gave her. For once, she hoped her companion would have bought some sweets, fruits, or anything tasty. _

_Her gaze flitted from patron to patron. Most sat at their respective tables, ignoring the small child. Others gave her a wide berth. They knew better than to tangle with her. To bother her was to bother Geralt. The customers of the common room did not wish to incur the wrath of the witcher. _

"_Twenty-five orens," the barkeep rumbled. His gaze did not meet the witcher's. He looked down at the table, counting the grooves in the wood. Like most, he was a coward. _

_Laelithra could not hear what Geralt responded with. She saw the human's face grow pallid as his eyes widened. The man clenched his hands together before splaying the palms over the wood. _

_Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was a strange thing to feel. There were times when others pissed in their trousers because the witcher glared at them. They did not wish to speak to her, to hear her tales. After all, she was damaged because of who she traveled with. Yet, she did not know exactly what they meant by "damaged"._

"_Why are you traveling with that freak?" a voice whispered behind her. She could feel the hot breath fan the back of her neck. The alcohol on his breath made her stomach roll. "I think its time for you to meet real men."_

_A shudder passed through Laelithra, partly from the touch, partly as a result of the tone of the voice. There was a threatening promise to it that, though she didn't understand the intent, told her that those intentions were not good. _

"_A real man does not prey on a child so young," Geralt growled, his voice ringing hollowly in the cramped space of the inn. To her surprise, Geralt turned. He had heard the ragged whisper even through his haggling with the innkeeper."Walk away before you regret your behavior. That is your only warning."_

"_Listen to the freak!" the drunkard laughed. He glared at the witcher, risking his own health. "Everyone knows you freaks can't have your own children, that you steal babies. Did you steal this girl? Is she your little toy?" He eyed Laelithra with a devilish look in his gaze. "There's plenty of her to go around, Whitey."_

_Geralt acted in a flash, his arm darting out faster than could be seen in the dim light of the tavern. He gripped the drunkard by the back of the neck and quickly slammed his forehead into the counter top before the innkeeper._

_The lecher fell to the floor unconscious. Blood dripped from the wound to his forehead, losing itself in his ratty crimson hair. He breathed raggedly. His chest rose and fell in his stupored state. With luck, he would wake up and remember the lesson the witcher taught him._

_Geralt turned his attention back to the innkeeper._

_Laelithra stepped closer to Geralt, seeking shelter in the tall planes of his body._

"_Ten orens will do fine," the innkeeper said hurriedly. "Just be out first thing in the morning."_

"_That won't be a problem," Geralt answered._

She gazed intently at the witcher laying prone on the ancient carpet of thorns. True to his word, they left that next day. Actually, they left before the sun peaked over the hills. It was like that in most every town they entered. If there was a job in that village, they would be greeted with open arms, food, and sometimes, lower inn prices. The patrons had always left her alone. Geralt would always be in reach of her. He knew the world better than she did.

Lifting her gaze, she watched the elf walk away without an answer to her question. Laelithra knew her only option was to trust him. She had used all of her reserved strength to move Geralt to the place he was (even though that was not very far). If she had to move him more, her body would collapse in protest. Her back and arms would ache and give out. Geralt was not the only one close to death, she reminded herself.

Sitting down next to him, she pulled her knees to her chest. The swords balanced on her knees, swaying gently with her slight movement. She was not one known to pity her situation. Viktor had beaten and starved that out of her long ago. Placing one hand on the delicate blades, she lifted the other with great effort. Laelithra hissed as agony washed over her as if she was being drenched in frigid water. As she swiped at the hot tears, she tried to ignore the searing worry that entered her heart.

What felt like an eternity but was actually only moments passed as Laelithra waited for Chireadan to return. It didn't really take him long to find two long, sturdy branches to craft a rough gurney for Geralt. Removing his soft leather cloak, he cut it into straps, tying the two branches together at regular intervals. He stood when he was finished and looked down at Laelithra.

"I'm going to put Geralt on this and drag him behind me," he said matter-of-factly. "Walk behind him, and make sure that he doesn't slip off of it."

Laelithra nodded, obeying simply because she had no other option. He did not have to ask that. Geralt had saved her life on so many occasions that she would return the favor to him.

"Here," the elf said, handing her a hard biscuit. "I'm sure you are hungry."

It was not until that moment that Laelithra realized how hungry she actually was. The last thing she had eaten was the rabbit. She shuddered at the memory of the marrow popping into her mouth. The piece of hard tack that she was given could have been a gourmet cake for all she cared at that point. She gnawed at the biscuit, tearing a corner off, barely chewing before swallowing.

Waiting on the elf to move Geralt, she did not talk to him. She did not have anything to say to him because they were so different. It was not just the fact that he had pointy ears. The girl huddled the swords to her chest with her one hand. Laelithra would not let those relics drop to the tainted ground.

Raising her other hand, she nibbled on the hard biscuit. It was hard to break off with her teeth, and the taste was bland. It tasted like nothing. As she thought back to the rabbit, she had to admit that the marrow was not that disgusting. What had disgusted her was the fact that she had to suck it out of the bone. She felt no better than the creature that held her and used her for his own gory needs.

Chireadan rolled Geralt onto the makeshift gurney.

Geralt lay on his back with his arms down to his sides. Tufts of hoary hair flowed over his eyes, hiding one of his hideous scars from view. His mouth was set in a grim frown as if he was inviting death, itself. Breathing slowly, his eyes remained closed. He was just sleeping, she thought, trying to take cold comfort in her own lies. In truth, she did not know what she would do if he died. She could not just wander the forests and roads as she once did. The witcher instilled an unknown emotion in Laelithra; he taught her that there was more to life than just existing.

Laelithra clutched the swords to her, feeling uncomfortable with the awkward bundle of weapons. Geralt had carried both weapons, and she began to wonder how he could without feeling like he was going to drop both of them. She stood and wobbled like a wooden top. The blades would make her fall, and she was afraid that the elf would continue on if that happened.

"I would expect to find a witcher in this forest," Chiredan said without looking behind him, "but what is a little girl doing with him? I thought witchers only took boys." He squatted down with his back to the witcher and Laelithra and lifted the two branches, one in each hand. Slowly, he started to moving. Though the progress was only slightly faster than before, the elf seemed to be exerting less energy in the act.

Walking behind the gurney slowly, she knew that question would be asked of her. She wondered how many times the witcher, himself, heard such a query. Their friendship was an unusual one, and people did not understand it. Laelithra did not want to answer him. The entire story was too long to go through; she was far too exhausted. She also refused to relive the experience she had just been through.

"You don't have to tell me," Chireadan added. He seemed to have sensed her hesitance on the subject. The knowledge of what had previously transpired had pained Laelithra greatly, and she did not know if she would ever be ready to talk about what had happened to her. "This forest is no place for a child is all I meant."

"He saved me," she answered him. She would not go any further in her explanation. While she did not judge people based on her first impressions, she did not trust anyone. It was a trait instilled in her by Viktor. To trust someone enough to hurt you was something that a fool did. Laelithra was no fool. A part of her was unsure whether or not the elf was leading her and Geralt to safety. Based on her previous experiences, she expected him to rob them both. After all, a girl with an unconscious witcher would be easy to take advantage of.

Chireadan did not answer her. He sensed her hesitation again and did not ask her to explain further. She felt relieved that he seemed to understand. What she told him was not a lie, either. It was the truth. Geralt had saved her more times than she could count. Laelithra was traveling with him because he rescued her from the road. The two seemed to be inseparable; the young girl would not let anyone separate them.

They moved slowly through the forest, finally coming to a clearing. Laelithra was confused when Chireadan dropped the branches. There wasn't anyone else around. The clearing was completely empty. Geralt would have known that they weren't alone, but Laelithra lacked the training. She hadn't been honed to that point yet.

Wildly, she looked around her. The elf had lead her back into the forest, and she feared that he was the creature that hunted them in disguise. He would cast off his fair face and devour her and Geralt. Of course, he would start with her. She would attempt to flee while he consumed the witcher. All hopes of the witcher living flowed from her like a burst balloon.

The elf brought his hands to his mouth and blew out a strange bird call. It was something that Laelithra had never heard. However, she was instantly reminded of Coop and his band of bandits. The assassin had hurt her after that. As the images of his violations crawled through her mind, she felt like she was going to vomit.

Laelithra became aware of elves all around them, just beyond the edge of the clearing. Their tall, slender shapes stood among the trees. For a moment, she wondered if they were going to blow away in the wind. The circle tightened around them.

"This man is Vattghern, the witcher," Chireadan explained to the others. "The child I do not know, but she was with him trying to wake him. He is on the very cusp of death."

...

Exhaustion set into her as she waited for the medic to appear. The elves were hesitant around her, almost to the point of refusing to treat Geralt. What made them act as such, she wondered. Laelithra would never hurt them. Such a thought was beyond the child. Was it because she traveled with Geralt? Many did not like the fact that the witcher had taken the little girl. Most did not understand their innocent relationship, seeing something lecherous when there was not.

She moved closer to the fire, staring deeply into its glowing embers. The elves were not fearful of the forest, and she did not know why. An ancient evil sleeped deep within its boughs, tricking minds of the adults to abandon their children. Was it because the group of elves were traveling close to the road? Laelithra suspected that the being lurked within the deepest parts of the forest.

Raising her head, she gazed at the witcher's prone body. For the first time since entering that clearing, she was able to think clearly. Geralt was not sleeping. The condition was more severe than that. It was very likely that the witcher would die like her father. If he did pass on, Laelithra was unsure what she would do.

Laelithra could hear the elves muttering about her: what she was doing with Geralt, why she was in that forest. She had become an object of scrutiny, much to her discomfort and displeasure. She wished Geralt would suddenly arise, and they could leave the place. She didn't know anything about elves, but she didn't like the unknown, not anymore.

She wrapped her arms around her knees as the medic finally began seeing to Geralt. The female elf looked immediately to Laelithra after inspecting the wound on Geralt's stomach.

"Who stitched this wound?" the medic asked in an urgent tone. Laelithra wilted slightly at the directness of the tone.

"He did it himself," she answered sheepishly. "I put some paste on it, but he stitched it."

"The wound is infected," the medic went on. "I'll have to cut the stitching, clean the wound, and restitch it. Why don't you go get yourself something to eat from one of the others. This isn't something a child should see."

Laelithra did not want to leave Geralt. She couldn't leave him to whatever fate had decided for him. Clenching her teeth together, she decided she would train. Yes, Geralt would mentor her as he had been. Together, they would face Jhaer. They would free Hare from her clutches, and Laelithra would not be a failure, not anymore. Placing her head on her knees, she gazed at the medic.

Even if the elf was very thin, Laelithra had never seen such a beautiful person. Her long black hair was pulled back away from her forehead, fastened behind her head with simple bone combs. Dark eyes viewed her curiously. Laelithra did not need to be a mind reader. The medic was thinking what the others thought. What was a child doing traveling with Geralt?

Again, she hated the interest in her. At that moment in time, Laelithra wanted to crawl deep within herself and disappear. She wanted to forget what had happened with the bruxa and the others. It was part of her life that caused her deep pain, and it was too recent to remember. Caring for Geralt and seeing to his welfare, as he saw to hers, were the only things that kept her from going mad.

"I have seen much worse," she admitted to the elf. No, she would not leave the only one who was not unknown to her. She knew Geralt would not hurt her, and she knew nothing of elves. Laelithra would stay and observe. "Infected wounds will not bother me."

The medic shrugged. "Do as you will," she said neutrally. It was clear that the elf didn't care one way or the other what Laelithra would do. She had never seen elves before, but she had heard the rumors about them. She wasn't sure if any of the things she had heard were true. Yet, these elves seemed to be alright. They had provided her with some food (even if they could not afford to do so), and they were doing what they could for Geralt.

With a quick jerk of a knife, the medic sliced through the stitching of Geralt's wound. She had to force the wound back open in order to clean it properly. The infection was horrific. Bits of stone, dirt, and leaf litter were lodged in it. Thick, yellowish pus oozed from it in places. Laelithra gagged from the smell of it. It smelled like death.

She could not help but feel as if it was her fault. There was nothing she could do to help him. What if the paste had increased the rate at which his infection spread. Laelithra had to watch because she would use the knowledge when she and Geralt went to rescue Hare. Of course, he would help. Despite his emotionless charade, the witcher was a kind man inside. He was a good man. After all, he had rescued her.

As the medic poured water over the wound, Geralt did not respond. There was no grunts of protest. He did not even scowl. There was nothing, and fear grew inside of her again.

Laelithra felt the urge to shake Geralt. She wished he would wake up, and she could clean the wound. They would find some village and restock their supplies. Perhaps, they would even return to the temple. Geralt would heal there. He would continue her training. It would be better to be prepared for when the Arcani emerged and sought her again. The witcher could do anything but die, she willed silently.

The medic finished cleaning the wound out, then she poured a liquid that bubbled and foamed as soon as it came in contact with the wound. Laelithra wondered silently if it hurt him, but Geralt didn't so much as move a muscle. Retrieving a needle and thread, the elf stitched the wound closed again. When she was finished, she wrapped it tightly in a bandage and turned to Laelithra.

"I've done all I can for him," she said honestly. "Either he will overcome the infection, or he won't. I will see to your injuries now."

Laelithra wanted to protest. She didn't want anyone other than Geralt to take care of her, but she knew that any protest would fall on deaf ears. She hesitantly lifted her tattered, soiled jerkin, showing the wound on her abdomen.

"It's not as serious as his," the medic said as if to herself, "but it's still amazing you are alive. I will clean yours as I did his and bandage it properly."

Laelithra knew she had other wounds that Geralt had seen to. The thought of others looking at such an embarrassing part of her body worried her. Questions would be asked. How did she get the wounds? Did Geralt give her them? She did not want to be forced to remember the specifics of her confinement, nor did she want to relive them.

She felt slightly more comfortable that the medic was a woman. Perhaps, she would understand the humiliation that Laelithra had to undergo. Different terrors tormented her while she slept in the day. Her sleep was never safe for her. Presently, it was even more so.

Once more, the memories of her captivity roared inside of her. It clouded her mind, forcing her back into that time. She trembled as if the very wind could break her. The dry paste stuck to her flesh, flaking off as she moved. Her skin itched. Laelithra was fearful that whatever the medic had to do to tend to her would hurt incredibly. Yet, nothing could compare to the pain she felt at the hands of Jhaer and her followers. She was sure of that.

The elf poured some of the same liquid onto a cloth and wiped it onto the wound on Laelithra's stomach. She winced, inhaling sharply in pain. In burned wickedly, and Laelithra couldn't help but whine at the feel of it.

"Hold still," the medic uttered suddenly. "I know it hurts, but you will get an infection as well if I don't clean your wounds. I'm surprised you're even able to stand." She finished cleaning the wound, and looked Laelithra in the eyes. Her voice was more gentle now. "Is there anywhere else that you are hurt?"

Laelithra stared in silence, suddenly ashamed of her own injuries. She sheepishly nodded her head and turned her face away from the elf's. Small tears streamed down her cheeks, tracing lines of shame through the dirt and blood on her face.

Geralt had to encourage her to show him those wounds. She trusted him, but she did not trust these elves. It was not the rumors that she heard. Laelithra barely believed rumors that spread around. The more people who gossiped, the more the rumors engorged. In one town, a woman tried to tell Laelithra that traveling with the witcher would result in the loss of her innocence. How could one be innocent when she was born corrupted? Or at least, that was what Viktor had told her.

No, she knew that these elves would not hurt her. The elves had offered to treat their wounds, and they did not have to do that. Also, they shared their meager provisions with her. After eating what her body needed, she dared not eat anymore. Despite everything, Laelithra had a kind heart. She was worried that she would eat so much that others would starve because of her.

She brought her shameful gaze back to the woman. Being female, she would understand how those monsters violated her. Geralt could never understand. He did not have the same sex as she did. After all, she could never understand the pain he felt when he was kneed in the apex of his thighs.

"I tried to stop him," she whispered, huskily, "but he was stronger and faster than me." Even as she tried to stop crying, tears coursed down her cheeks. She hated to cry before anyone, viewing the act as a waste of energy and weakness. Viktor told her that women cried about everything because they were weaker, and therefore, inferior to men. Still, the product of her pain and humiliation dripped off of her chin and landed in small twin pools on the littered ground.

The elf suddenly became gentle, lifting Laelithra's head with a soft touch to her chin. Their eyes met, and Laelithra was instantly aware that the woman before her understood, exactly, the ordeal she had been through. Laelithra could see a twin shame hidden in the depth of those gentle eyes. She felt the tears stop, and the cold grip of embarrassment slipped off of her like water.

"Do not ever be ashamed for what someone else has done to you," the elf said firmly. She cast a hateful glance at Geralt's prone form before returning her eyes to Laelithra. "You are safe now. I will be brief treating your wounds. He can't hurt you anymore."

She was confused at the glance that the elf gave Geralt. The witcher was everything that Laelithra had left in her life. Without him, she would have died to whatever crept in the forest. It would have engorged itself on her flesh and meat. Unlike Jhaer and her minions, the monster dared not attack her with the witcher present.

As comforting as the knowledge was that this woman shared the same cruel act as she, she knew that her life would be forever changed. Even in her childish mind, she knew she would not have a normal life. There would be no companion for Laelithra. She doubted that she would ever be able to trust a man again. No, her playmates (if she would have any) would all be girls.

"I know he will not be able to hurt me," she replied, softly. "Geralt killed him. It was how he was injured."

"Oh," the elf said as if surprised. She lost the suspicious glare when looking at Geralt, but it was clear that she was still uncomfortable with his presence. Not many people, human and elf alike, were comfortable with the presence of a witcher. After all, it was why many viewed the relationship between Geralt and Laelithra as strange.

As the medic finished cleaning Laelithra's wounds, a soft grunt sounded out behind them. Laelithra felt her spirits soar.

"Where am I?" Geralt muttered in a stupor. He was sitting up, looking around, an expression of confusion on his face. "How did I get here?" He did not see Laelithra and was getting frantic. "Laelithra? Where are you?"

He shouldn't be sitting up, her mind screamed at her. Geralt almost died because he was more concerned with getting her to safety. It warmed her to have someone that cared about her like the witcher, but he needed to be concerned with himself. If he died, who would protect her? She would hate to admit it to anyone that she relied on someone that was not herself. It was another kind of weakness that Viktor prattled on about. He would be ashamed if he could see her at that moment.

Viktor was not there; the other witcher was . Laelithra felt a surge of joy at the knowledge that he was going to live. The elves did not lie to her. For a moment, she felt a twitch of shame for thinking that they would just make things worse. Concern for Geralt overshadowed those feelings. If she did not make her presence known, he would get up and look for her. It was possible that he would tear the fresh stitches.

Geralt coughed, clutching at the freshly cleaned wound. He looked utterly disoriented. Laelithra surmised that anyone who came so close to death would awaken in such a way. He glanced around frantically, his eyes unfocused.

Standing took great effort for her. Her own stitches burned, pulling against the torn flesh in opposition. The elf had seen to all of her, and her body felt sore everywhere. Despite everything she been through, she was still a child.

Finally, he calmed when his eyes rested on Laelithra.

Squirming under his gaze, she bit the inside of her mouth. Geralt had a way of making the toughest thugs feel uncomfortable. There were times when she felt like a little girl, and this was one of them.

"We made it?" he asked in disbelief. "How?" Laelithra couldn't help but smile, unable to contain her happiness that her idol had survived. Had he died, she would never have forgiven herself. She leaned toward him, hugging him in her childish excitement.

Laelithra did not answer him. What could she tell him? She dragged him through the forest, shredding both jerkin and his back. His abrupt wakefulness had taken her by surprise. Even though he was a witcher, he should have been burning with fever. In fact, he should have still been unconscious.

Feeling her hope rise, she smiled at him. With Geralt awake, he could concentrate on healing. It would not be long before they were back on the road and traveling by themselves. While the female medic could understand her pain, she only wanted him to treat her injuries. The child knew it had to do with Geralt caring about her. No one, not even Viktor, cared about her well-being. Geralt had overcome her protective walls, and he was not even trying to. Of course, the elves bandaged their wounds. Yet, Geralt and she could have been invisible.

Deep within her heart, she knew that Geralt would not leave them. He needed to recover from his wound, and the constant care for her would weigh on him. It was better that way, she convinced herself. She knew better than to question him on his choices. The witcher could blow hot or cold at a moment's notice.

Her wounds continued to ache, and she suspected that they would continue to. Laelithra could only imagine how he was feeling. Geralt's paste had saved her from infection, but his was too far gone. At least, his body would not wallow in the infection anymore. He would live, and the joy overtook her again.

"I brought your silver sword with us," she spoke up. She hoped her simple distraction would work. Laelithra was too exhausted from their ordeal to explain how they had arrived in the clearing. Because Geralt was well, she wished to curl up next to the fire and sleep. Sitting down next to him again, she looked eager for his approval. "I did not leave it behind."

Geralt smiled crookedly, through the pain, at Laelithra, and she felt her spirit soar. She had won his approval. The feeling warmed her like a shot of alcohol, spreading to every corner of her being. At that moment, Geralt was everything to her. He was her hero, her savior, and her father, in a weird way. He had come to be everything that Viktor was, except that he was better to her. She smiled back proudly.

"You did well," Geralt praised. He patted her on the head. She beamed like a dog given a treat. Through all the bleakness and despair, she had displayed courage and determination. "How are you feeling? Did they take care of your wounds as well?"

"They did," she answered as she nodded quickly at the same time, "and they gave me some food and something to drink. Are you hungry? They probably would give you some, too." Her words came out one on top of another in her excitement over the sheer fact that Geralt was simply alive.

Laelithra knew to wait for his answer. In a way, she did not want to. She wanted to go fetch him whatever he desired. He had to be hungry. The last thing that they ate was the rabbit, and she did not remember him eating any of it. Geralt was starving himself to make sure she had enough nutrients to survive. Yet, his collapse was a direct result. His body did not have the strength to fight off the infection.

Gazing at him, she did not say what was on her mind. She could have started a long lecture about how he should have looked after himself. If he were to die, she would soon follow. The girl was too young to survive on her own. It did not matter that she did just that before she met Geralt. He was her world now, and she could not help but wonder what it would be like without him in it. According to his grim prophecies on how he would die, she would find out. If the monster was stronger and quicker than him, she reminded herself. As young girls do with their role-models, she could not imagine someone or something superior to him.

"You have to be thirsty," she continued, stumbling over the words. Laelithra wanted to make sure his complete recovery was quick and relatively pain-free. Because of her concern, she did not take her own injuries in consideration. Everything paled next to Geralt. "I could find something for you to drink."

Geralt struggled to his feet, wobbling slightly. He looked down at Laelithra, smiling again, in spite of the pain. She beamed at his approval.

"I can find something to eat and drink myself," Geralt muttered, mussing Laelithra's hair with his hand. Laelithra pouted, wanting to fetch those things for him. She wanted to take care of him, to show him that she was stronger than many thought she was.

"You should rest," Laelithra ordered. It was truly an ironic sight to see: the small child lecturing the witcher. "I'll fetch food and drink for you. Sit back down and rest." It was all Geralt could do to keep from laughing. Still, he sat back down in the grass and put his hands on his knees.

"Alright, then," he conceded. "Go ahead and get me something to eat and drink." Once more, Laelithra's face glowed with a smile. She couldn't wait until they were back on the road again, and she could take care of him more.

She nodded briefly, and happiness illuminated her face. The girl did not feel useful unless she was taking care of him. While she could not stitch or bandage his wounds, she knew how to clean them. After all, she had cleaned Viktor's many times before she met Geralt.

...

Laelithra walked around the camp, taking notice of how the others avoided her eye contact. They shied away from her as if she was infested with fleas. She found it suspicious that there were no humans among them. The only other race was a few dwarfs. Why did the elves and dwarfs separate themselves from the rest of the world? Because she did not have the experience that her companion held, she could not see the world like he did. Maybe, Geralt would have the answer.

What would he want to eat? He had to be starving, but she hoped that they would have something decent for him to eat. Many times, he would tell her that food did not have to taste good. It had to be nutritious. Laelithra could not understand why something could not be delicious and good for the body at the same time. Perhaps, he would come around in time. Yet, she suspected that the witcher would always be the way that he was. That was alright, too.

As she walked, she was lost in her own thoughts. They consumed her and burned into her mind like flames igniting branches.

"What do you need?" a voice startled her.

Laelithra spun around in surprise. Chireadan was standing before her, his arms crossed over his chest. She suddenly felt very out of place as she shied away from the slender elf. Maybe, she should have let Geralt get his own food and drink, she thought to herself. She always had to be brave, but she was beginning to feel like the small child that she was.

"You shouldn't wander around too much," Chireadan lectured. "You and Geralt both need rest to recuperate. There are also some among us that have no love for humans." The last statement struck Laelithra as odd. She didn't know much at all about the history of elves, dwarves, and humans. Viktor hadn't taught her much at all about it, and Geralt didn't say much on the subject, either. Witchers didn't involve themselves in politics.

"I need something for Geralt to eat and drink," Laelithra said. The elf met her request with surprise.

"He is awake?" he asked in disbelief.

Laelithra nodded.

"Go back to him. I'll get bread and beer for him. I'd like to speak with him, anyway."

She was tired of being lectured. Everyone lectured her. Chireadan, Geralt, and Viktor always tried to tell her what to do. She could not do this or that. Viktor complained about the way she rode a horse. It was not lady like. Geralt did not wish her to swear, but she picked that habit up from Viktor. Presently, she was not suppose to wander around the camp.

"Yes, sir," she replied sheepishly again.

Without waiting for his reply, she turned her back and began the journey back to Geralt. What was she suppose to do? These elves were strange people. She would not hurt them, and she could not understand why they did not have any love for her kind. Yet, she knew how humanity could be. How many times did they shun Geralt and her father?

Laelithra furrowed her brow, losing herself in unanswerable questions again. Geralt could not tell her why the elves behaved like they did. She viewed them as beautiful and kind beings. The medic that treated her was aloof, but the woman was not mean to her. What could they possibly do to her?

Fear saturated her as she had asked herself that before. She asked herself what Jhaer or the boy who captured her could do to her once. The answer came swiftly in her own shame and blood. No, she did not want to know what those that were around her were capable of.

Suddenly, she wanted to go back to Geralt and keep in his sight. Laelithra started to walk faster, and the terror threatened to grip her heart. He would not let anything happen to her. She was safe around him, but she would never be comfortable around him again. There was no man she would be comfortable around.

"Where's my food and drink?" Geralt asked upon Laelithra's return. She plopped down next to him and shrugged noncommittally. She pointed behind him, signaling that they were being brought to him by someone else.

"Chireadan is bringing them," she said. "He told me I shouldn't wander around the camp. He's the one that found us."

A look of recognition passed over Geralt's face as the elf approached them, carrying a hunk of bread and a clay pitcher.

"That I did, Geralt," he said as he approached, "and I'm surprised that you're even breathing right now. Here." He handed Geralt the bread and beer. "You've got someone watching out for you, Geralt. That, or you're incredibly lucky. The odds of surviving that forest, of being found within it, are less than good."

She looked at the exchange between the two. Laelithra noticed that the elf did not ask Geralt why he was in the forest. Except royalty (and even then it was forced), Geralt didn't answer to anyone. His confidence was one of the things that she admired in him. It was one of the things that she tried to imitate. Even though he hated it, she worshiped him.

Geralt lifted the pitcher to his lips, drinking deeply. Beer sloshed down the sides of his mouth and dripped onto the hairs on his chest. Some slid down his chest and his stomach. It dripped on the leather of his pants.

Yawning, she stretched out beside Geralt. The dirt clung to her frock, but it did not matter. After all, the garment was dirty already. When they passed a stream, she would wash and clean most of the muck from it.

Tearing off a chunk of the bread, Geralt chewed it slowly. He sat in silence, showing the manners that had been instilled into him, not speaking with his mouth full. Laelithra thought it was strange. Viktor was a crass and crude man. He swore like a soldier, ate like a wild animal, and treated her like a burden. Geralt wasn't like that, and she did not know why. They were both witchers, but they could not have been more different.

"I would have avoided that place if I could have," Geralt said after swallowing. He took another pull of the beer. "There is a great evil in that place, and we came face to face with it. You are right though, Chireadan. We are lucky to be alive."

She closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of Geralt chewing softly. For the first time since her abduction, Laelithra could feel the need to sleep. Because she felt safe in his presence, she felt comfortable. Geralt would not let anything happen to her. If one of them tried to harm her, he would deal with it. There would be no second chances with him. Yet, he was not as protective as her father. Viktor would murder people for just looking at him wrong. He felt as if the whole world conspired against him, and he hated it. While there were similarities, there were more differences.

Laelithra knew that they would have to travel with the elves for quite some time. She needed to mend so she could be well enough to look after Geralt. His profession saw many injuries to his body. Each wound was a reminder to him to quicken his reaction times. They were a learning experience. To Laelithra, they were cuts and abrasions that needed medicine. If they traveled at that point, he would have to treat her wounds. No, she would not be a burden to him.

"I won't say that we could not benefit from your experiences," the elf put forth, boldly. She admired his request. Most would have gone screaming from the witcher or taken advantage of the situation because he was injured. Chireadan and those that he traveled with genuinely seemed like they needed Geralt's help.

Geralt said nothing, keeping silent. His gaze did not waver from the elf's pale face.

She rolled onto her side, lifting her hand. Laelithra put it underneath the side of her head and offered some sort of comfort to herself. They did not have pillows or blankets. Most of that was left behind by Geralt in his search for her or pitched into the river by her captor. Because she was afraid of what the night would bring, she dreaded to rest. Usually her sleep was filled with nightmares and remnants of gentle words by the witcher.

"We are fleeing to Vizima," Chiraedan continued.

"Fleeing?" Geralt repeated questioningly. "Fleeing from what?" He took another drink of the beer as Laelithra nestled in next to him. She tried her best to follow the conversation, to learn all that she could by listening closing. She was a bright young child, absorbing knowledge like a sponge in water.

Scooting across the dead grass, she moved until she touched her back to the witcher's leg. Geralt's hard muscle twitched, moving beneath the leather.

"The usual," Chireadan answered. "We had settled in a small town, near the southern edge of the forest. We knew about the stories, about the children that had gone missing in the past, but we thought it worth the risk. The people there seemed to be grateful to have more able bodies to work and defend the town. It wasn't meant to last, though. When another child went missing, of course, the non-humans were blamed. We were run out of town, with nothing more than what we could carry."

Geralt shook his head, obviously familiar with being ostracized, himself. Of course, he was. She had witnessed it numerous times. How many rocks were thrown in his direction, hitting hard on the shoulder or chest? The girl had learned to lean out of the way of the racial onslaught. He had no comment to add to Chireadan's statement. If he had an opinion on the matter he kept it to himself. Now, though, she was tired, so tired. She hadn't realized how tired she was until that point.

She closed her eyes, listening to the ebb and flow of the conversation. They were discussing how helpful the witcher could be to the party or what he could do while the two of them recuperated. Geralt listed off several chores, even mentioning that he would cook for them. Laelithra grimaced internally at the comment. The witcher was not known for his delicious tastes in spice.

While she was considering all sorts of inedible concoctions that Geralt could come up with, she felt very tired. Even though her eyes were close, she felt exhaustion creep over her body and weigh her down like an anchor on a ship. It would not be long before sleep took her, and the thought terrified her. Despite Geralt's leg against her, she knew that it would not be enough to keep the thoughts and dreams at bay.

...

The days passed, stretching their invisible arms out. As the elves moved on the road, Laelithra stayed close to Geralt. She still did not like the way that they stared at her. With the witcher near her, she felt safe. After all, she did not know any who would feel in danger with him nearby.

He rested with his back against the trunk of a tree. All evidence of the pain that he was in before was not present. Geralt wore a look of nonchalance across his pallid face.

She sat beside him, folding her legs beneath her. Her brow furrowed as she gazed at the words written on an ancient piece of faded goatskin. It was one of the few things that survived his pursuit into her hell.

"What's that?" Geralt asked. He pointed to a heavy pointed letter. His dirty fingernail rested on the curved sweep of the character.

"Geralt," she whined. "This is too easy. I know that letter."

"Stop whining," Geralt uttered monotonously. While she could not hear the expressions in the witcher's voice, Laelithra had traveled with him enough to be cued in on his body language.

"I'm telling you it is easy."

"If you're so sure that you know this one, then tell me what it is," he lectured. His stern look matched his tone, mimicking the stares that Viktor had when he taught. Deep inside, she felt the tremor of fear. Even though he looked tired of her interruptions, he did not appear to be impatient.

"It's an A," Laelithra answered in frustration. She stretched out her legs, resting against the tree, also. Laelithra wanted him to be proud of her, to acknowledge her accomplishments. "See, it's easy."

He nodded, briefly.

Though Geralt was displaying endless patience, Laelithra was quickly running out of it. She was hungry to learn, to absorb anything that the witcher could offer to teach her. He refused to continue her training, saying that she needed to heal more. This was one of the only things that she agreed on. The pace that Geralt was going at was not enough to sate her curiosity.

She leaned over, placing her hand on his thigh. As she put pressure on him, she could feel the supple leather beneath her fingers. When she pushed herself up and knelt on her knees beside him, his pants creaked in protest.

"And that one's a B!" she exclaimed. With her other hand, she reached past Geralt's chest and pointed to the animal hide in his lap. Her hand brushed his arm, and she ignored the sharp sensation that traveled up her arm. Diaphanous hair on her arms rose to oppose the brief touch. She put her hand past four words and touched the fat sloops of the text.

"I didn't ask you what that one was," Geralt said in annoyance. He lifted his hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose before sighing roughly. "If you want to learn how to read, you'll need to be patient and work through this slowly. Just knowing the letters isn't enough. You have to pronounce them in different contexts."

She felt the sting of embarrassment. Because she was desperate to make him pleased with her, she inhaled, quickly. A frown spread across her features, darkening her countenance.

"You're right, though. It is a B," he added a quick, rare encouragement after he saw the look of disappointment on her face.

Beaming under his approval, the girl glowed. During her time spent training with Viktor, he had never once praised her. He had trained her hard, taking on the rigid role of mentor. His harsh instructions were etched in her memory like grooves worn in ancient rock. She shivered as she remembered his abrasive techniques. Her legs twitched, admonishing her of paths carved in forests.

The wind around them caressed them. Her hair swirled around her head, and the tips of the light strands tickled the peak of his sharply featured nose. A few days ago, she was relieved that the elves stopped at a babbling brook. She finally washed off the forest debris and gore. At last, she began to feel, at least, like a shadow of her former self.

Laelithra bit the inside of her mouth, nipping at the fleshy corner. She felt the sharp pain jolt in her mouth, and it spread through her cheek.

Viktor always minimized her distractions while resenting his burden. It was why he had lied about Hare dieing. Her brother did not crack his head on a rock while he was practicing on the path winding through the woods. To bend the truth to the child was easier than to admit reality. After all, it would force the elder witcher into realizing that his destiny was a girl instead of the boy he had taken by force.

Instead of telling her that Jhaer had abducted her brother, he had fabricated Hare dying. _No,_ Laelithra thought, _he was not progressing as much as Viktor wished. He gave Hare to the vampire._ Even though she was young and did not have a name for it, betrayal sliced through her core. Viktor was supposed to protect them, shielding them from the evils of the world.

Bile rose in her throat, forcing her to eject the meager breakfast that the elves, witcher, and girl shared. She tried not to quake as memories assaulted her. Laelithra did not mourn the loss of her father. Before she was abducted and learned of the clan of unnatural creatures, she did not think Viktor was capable of the such deceit. Yet, her childish, rational mind could not give her a positive reason he would achieve by lying.

"This says _Witcher urgently needed_," he continued, speaking slowly and enunciating each he spoke, his hand moved along the notice. _"A basilisk is terrorizing our quaint town. Its breath rots the flesh. To look it in the eye will turn you to stone. Merchants can not travel our roads safely. Two-Hundred and Fifty Coin._"

She stared at the unfamiliar words, feeling frustration slip inside of her again. It curled inside of her, and rattled like a snake.

"What is terrorizing the town?" he asked

"A basilisk. They need a witcher because their merchants can not make it to town. You would get paid two hundred and fifty coin," she parroted, regurgitating the words quickly.

He exhaled through his nose roughly, again. His hair bounced, brushing strands against his shoulder.

She thought how it was ironic that Geralt would teach her how to read by using a notice he found at one of the crossroads. It solidified her opinion that they needed to mend so she could take care of him. After all, the elf medic would not take into consideration that Geralt was often in pain (even if he did not show it).

"I think that the reward is too low," she protested. Despite what anyone said, she would always defend Geralt. It was the bond they shared that drove her to such actions.

"Do you know what sound the character B makes?" he asked, ignoring her comment. The witcher raised his head, turned it to the side, and gazed intently at Laelithra. Like her father, he commanded complete attention.

Suddenly, it was embarrassing for her to hear him talking like he was. These were things that she should have known. Viktor should have taught her them. In contrary to her desires, girls were not encouraged to become literate. Her place was cooking and tending to the needs of her husband. Those were the traits that Geralt and Viktor both should have had her learn.

"Buh?" Laelithra said, questioningly.

Geralt nodded, obviously pleased with her progress. She was learning quickly, probably a side effect of the herbs fed to her. Not only did they speed up her metabolism and growth, but also her aptitude for learning. What would take days with a normal child, she picked up in a matter of hours. Laelithra was like a sponge, soaking up all the knowledge he could give her.

Unable to take his ardent gaze any longer, she looked away. Beside them, several, miniature black ants crawled slowly. They marched in a single line as they carried debris and bloody tissue on their segmented backs. Even in that place of learning, the creatures were a reminder of the grim fate that anticipated the demise of Geralt and herself.

"And do you know any words that start with _B_?" Geralt inquired, testing her further.

She thought quietly, running words through her mind slowly, pronouncing them in her head. Because he had nothing in his life to be happy about, the witcher barely smiled. Laelithra wanted to make him proud.

"Blade," she began, "Barghest. Bruxa. Um, beef?"

Again, he acquiesced. Reaching over her, he patted the top of her head.

Beaming at him again, she smiled widely. Warmth from his praise settled deep within her stomach, spreading to the entirety of her body.

"Good," he said. "That's enough for now."

...

The heavens opened and released a torrent of rain, as if the deities themselves had declared war on the world. Water showered down like a thousand arrows blotting out the sun. Liquid pebbles smashed into the dirt and left tiny, round craters behind.

Glancing to her left, Laelithra walked beside one of the elves. It was obvious that he was much older than her. His clan called him Barathon. She even thought that he was older than Geralt. During their stay, she found him to be easy to talk to. While she did not idolize him like she worshiped Geralt, there were things that he said that she could relate to. Viktor and Geralt were outcasts, facing the same disdain the elves did. Because she traveled with them, she felt the same contempt. Scorn wafted off the witchers, coating her in its oily darkness.

"You wish me to believe that you know how to wield a sword?" he asked her.

The comment did not bother Laelithra. Many people, from humans to the elves they currently traveled with, mistook her stature as weak. Even though she had a fierce tenacity, she could not possibly hold a sword. It was another one of those things that Viktor and Geralt should not have taught her, but she was glad that they did. In the future, most would give pause before trying to hurt her.

"I know how to use a sword," she replied, proudly. She tilted her head to the side, angling her chin proudly. Through the rain falling, her eyes glittered like diamonds. The water shattered into her round shoulders, streaming down her flesh. Her translucent frock clung to her body. As each angry droplet cascaded from the heavens, she could feel each sliver crash into her. It was a cold rain, purifying in its iciness.

"You are but a little girl!" Barathon exclaimed.

She clenched her teeth together, grinding them. That was one of the things that she hated. Most thought she could do nothing because she did not have the experience that they had. Those people underestimated what she was truly capable of. Geralt and Viktor did not, and that was one of the reasons they were special to her.

As she walked next to the elf, her feet sank into the mud. It clutched at her and slid over her toes. The sticky wet dirt reflected her mood well. Her thoughts weighed her down, adhering to her mind. Even as she grew, she knew she would never be anything other than a woman. All the skills she acquired in her life would amount to nothing.

Wishing to escape from the uncomfortable conversation, she searched the line of people for Geralt. She distanced herself from him more as she became accustomed to the personality of the elves. Yes, some were dangerous as Chireadan suggested before. Laelithra could not just walk among them without worry.

However, she felt comfortable around some of them. There was a certain comradery that she experienced with them. For example, the medic understood the shame within Laelithra. The elves had been mistreated, abused, and left to fend for themselves. In a way, Laelithra had too. Like the elves, she had someone who cared about her.

Geralt was her safety in a world full of abuse and cruelty. There were many times when he was the refuge between her sanity and the outside world. Like an anchor on a ship, he was there to keep her secure. She knew he would always be there. Radiant affection spread through her as she thought about the man that she respected.

He walked next to the female medic, taking long, confident strides. Self-assurance, a natural emotion for Geralt, cloaked him in an invisible cocoon. The witcher stepped calmly underneath the less oppressing forest eaves. As the droplets of rain landed on him and trickled down his hoary chest and arms, he ignored the uncomfortable feeling.

"-irreversible sterility and unlikely to have any children," the medic's words drifted to her. Although she walked fast enough to keep Geralt in her field of vision, she was not close enough to hear the entire conversation.

Shaking his head, Geralt did not respond. His jaw tightened as he pulled his shoulders back. It was a strange thing for him to concern himself with. Laelithra knew that a witcher became sterile because of the herbs force-fed to them. The infertility was something that she thought he had come to terms with.

"Without the aid of an enchantress," the healer continued, "the damage that was done is too severe to treat."

Regret spiraled through her, overshadowing her own reason and pain. She knew that the man wished to have children, but he could not. Like his eventual death, he had coped with that fact. At least, she thought he had. If he really wanted, he could get a sorceress to heal it. Laelithra would take comfort in that thought for her friend.

Geralt's face was an unreadable mask as he listened to the medic. For all Laelithra knew, they could have been talking about the weather judging from his neutral countenance. It was an act, and the girl knew that. He kept his neutral facial expressions to hide his true feelings from others. They would not be able to tell if he was angry or anything else.

He passed a hand over the top of his head, pulling the wet strands of hair back from his face. Droplets of water streamed in thin lines on the sharp curves of his gaunt cheeks. Although she could see him respond to the elf, he spoke in a low voice. She could not make out the words.

"I'm sorry," the female elf said.

Lowering his head, he replied to her. Again, Laelithra could not understand what he was saying. However, she traveled with him enough that she could understand the subtle clues that his body language gave. He was not an unfeeling mutant as most claimed.

He jerked his head upwards, turned it towards the trees and scanned the dark spaces between the trunks. For any other person, it would look like he was simply watching for trouble. She knew better. His body tensed.

Both of them turned, approaching Laelithra and the male elf. They walked carefully past the other elves going the other way. His confidence did not sway as they continued to stroll towards them. Rain pelted both the elf and the witcher. As it slid down his exposed shoulders, he showed no signs of discomfort.

When they arrived before her, Laelithra stood next to Geralt. Her vision was becoming blurry. She blinked slowly, trying to clear her vision.

"There is something that I wish to discuss with both of you," Geralt addressed the couple. He shook his head quickly, flinging water off of him like a dog.

The gaze that shot between the elven couple could tell the story of what went through their minds. When the witcher wanted to talk something with someone, it was never a pleasant discussion. He usually _discussed _a lapsed payment. They nodded in response, bowing their heads to him slightly.

"It's obvious that Laelithra is at risk traveling with me. I can't, in good conscience, put her in danger like that anymore. I will travel with your group for a time while my wounds heal. I can help with hunting, seeing to the animals, and cooking. When I leave, though, I would be very grateful if I could leave the child with you. She is intelligent and able-bodied. She would not be a burden to you."

Her stomach knotted as she listened to him. It sank inside of her, gripping tightly in a place that the young girl did not have a name for. Again, she thought of how Geralt was her safety blanket. With his words, he took away that comfort. He tore it from her, cutting deeply inside of her.

"We're strained on resources as it is, " the male elf said. "We can't take on another mouth to feed."

"She's more than able to carry her own weight," Geralt argued. His brow drew together, darkening his face for a moment. Many did not argue with him. He respected those that did.

"Then why don't you take her?"

That was the question that was on her mind. Why could she not travel with Geralt? She was mature enough, and she had learned her lesson on leaving him.

"I'm a witcher," he began. It was not the first time that she had heard him use that excuse. When he wanted to be rid of his emotions or some other thing, he mentioned how different he was. Once more, he lifted his hand and pushed the wet strands from his face. The weather seemed to infiltrate all of their moods, blackening their outlook. "There is no place in my life for a child. You saw the condition she was in when you found us. If she wasn't with me, that would never have happened to her."

Laelithra felt a sting of regret pass through her. After all they had gone through, he would abandon her when she needed him the most. She could not rationalize the feelings coursing through her tiny body. Her chest felt sticky, filling with dread. Grief threatened to bring tears to her eyes.

The elf sighed, apparently conceding the point to Geralt for the time being. From the look on his face, though, Laelithra could tell that the discussion was far from being over. She hoped that the elves would refuse. She did not want to stay with them. They were all strangers. Everyone was a stranger, except Geralt.

She gazed between the two elves, hoping to read the answers to Geralt's request on their faces. Like Geralt, they were both blank canvases.

"The two of you can stay with us, for now," Barathon said. "At least, until both of your wounds are healed. We're not exactly in any shape to turn away an extra set of hands. We'll talk more about your request when the time comes for you to leave. It's not a decision I can make on my own, nor lightly. I will need to discuss it with the others and, of course, my wife."

"That's good enough for now," Geralt answered.

The two elves departed, moving further away from them in the moving group. Once more, the witcher was alone with her.

She folded her arms, crossing them before her chest. Glaring up at him, she was too hurt and angry to speak for the moment. Laelithra thought he had actually cared for her, that she was not a burden like she was to Viktor. In truth, it did not really surprise her. For every adult, there was a time when they left her behind. With Viktor, it was his death. For Geralt, it was when she was captured.

However, this time it hurt worse. She had finally thought she found a friend in the witcher. He was resistant at first, but they eventually got along. In fact, she grew fond of Geralt the longer that they traveled together. It was the reason she traveled with him, cared for his wounds, and looked up to him.

Taking in a deep breath, the sounds of the elves and forest faded around them. She was intent on proving her point, showing him that she could be helpful to him. Laelithra had to show him that what happened would never happen again. After all, she would listen to him. She had too.

"I don't want to go with the elves," she said, quietly. Looking up at him, she tried her best to keep her emotions from spreading onto her face. If she was going to protest against his wishes, then she was going to do it without crying. She would show him that she was mature enough to go with him. "I don't know anyone here, and they look at me funny."

"I would not place you with people I do not know, Laelithra," Geralt replied. "I've done much work with these elves I will leave you with."

"I'm not comfortable here," she protested, softly. "I want to go with you."

"That's not up to you," Geralt answered with a tone of finality in his voice. "I'm not taking you with me when I go. It's too dangerous."

"I'll just follow you again," she blurted in defiance. Her emotions were rising with the lack of emotion in his voice. "You can't make me stay here."

"No, you won't follow me. I'll tie you up if I have to. I should have made you stay at the temple. None of this would have happened if you would have just stayed there."

"You don't know that!" Laelithra cried out, suddenly. Her emotions were starting to get the better of her. She was always too emotional. That was what Viktor had told her. "They could have come for me there. Then you would have never known about it until it was too late. I'd be a slave to those monsters! Is that what you want? It doesn't matter as long as you are rid of me!"

"Calm down, please," Geralt tried to soothe her. It was a strange sight to behold for the elves that watched them. "There's no way of being absolutely sure of your safety."

She grinned up at him, satisfied that he was conceding to her point. For a moment, the child thought that she had him wrapped around her finger. Yet, he was not finished.

"But," he continued with that same tone in his voice, "traveling with me is the least safe you can be. You don't want to travel with me. You might think you do, but I can't look after you. I don't have eyes in the back of my head, and I can't be watching you all of the time. I'm not saying that there will be no risk staying with Barathon and Liruliniel. You'll be at risk no matter where you are. I'm just saying that traveling with me is riskier than anything else."

A frown appeared on her lips, deepening her complexion. She knew there would be no arguing with the witcher. Debating with him was as frustrating as trying to get her way with Viktor. Both tasks were impossible. Laelithra understood that she would have to be resigned to her fate. After all, she could not change his mind. Yet, she could not let him leave without trying. Her thoughts were torn as if he had cleaved them down the middle. She wanted to either remonstrate with him over where she felt safest or accept his decision without argument. The decision would affect the rest of her life.

...

To Laelithra's great dismay, the time passed quickly. Geralt was nearly fully healed. It was ironic, she thought to herself, that she wished he would never get better. She knew he would force himself to part with her, and it was selfish for her to want to delay it at the sacrifice of his health. Laelithra did not feel safe without him. How many times had his sword saved her life since they began traveling together? Yet, he insisted that she wasn't safe with him.

However, there would come a point when it would be beyond her choice. Geralt had made up his mind about leaving her with those two elves. She did not like it because she only wished to travel with him. Laelithra could not understand his reasoning. In their wanderings, the Arcani was less likely to strike. With Barathon and Liruliniel, they would find her easily. The elves did not travel unless they were forced from their homes.

Finally, the day came when Geralt and Laelithra approached the elven couple once more, a look of wanderlust in his eyes. She knew he was going to leave, and she was going to protest as much as possible .

"I'm well enough to go," Geralt said. "We must talk about the child. Will you take her with you?"

Barathon was quiet for a lingering moment; his mind clearly locked in an internal debate.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Laelithra waited for them to sentence her to her doom. She stared at the witcher, refusing to lower her gaze. It was a futile attempt to get what she wanted. Geralt knew her tricks, and he would not budge.

"We would require compensation," he answered finally, "to offset the costs of taking on another mouth to feed. Five hundred orens."

A pained look passed over Geralt's face as hope soared within Laelithra. She knew he was a skinflint, and he would be hard pressed to part with so much coin. He needed as much coin as possible to make it through the winter. There was a chance he would refuse, and she would get to continue on with him.

"I'll need to purchase one of your horses, too," Geralt offered. "One of the mares. I'll give you one thousand for both. Is that agreeable?"

Again, she found herself willing the elf to refuse Geralt. If he refused, Geralt would be forced to take her with him. He would either venture on to his friends or return to the temple in Ellander. Either way, it would force him to consider his foolish decision to continue without her.

Barathon shook his head. The long, dark hair brushed his sunken cheeks. He would try to get as much coin as possible for the exchange. Geralt was, by no means, rich so he would deny the elf. Hope exploded in her small chest.

"I could go with you," Laelithra spoke up. Again, she wished that her suggestion would change his mind. She could be as stubborn as he could at times. It was a characteristic that she inherited from Viktor. He beat his willfulness into her.

"Two thousand for both."

Geralt looked insulted, as if the elf was trying to take him for a fool. Laelithra knew that he would not accept such an outrageous offer, but she also knew he would try to haggle the price down. He passed a hand down his face. Hopefully, she thought, they wouldn't come to an agreement. He would be forced to take her.

She sucked in her breath, waiting for his response. The entire conversation was weighing on her. Uncomfortably, she kicked a small pebble. The rock bounced, turning over on itself.

"There's no way that any of those horses are worth fifteen hundred," Geralt argued. "I know you people are desperate, but you should know better than try to pull one over on a witcher. I am in as much need of my coin as you all are. If I gave you that much, I would have to work twice as hard in order to make enough before winter. I've helped you out as I've traveled with you. The girl has shown she is useful. Two thousand is too much. I'll give you twelve hundred, and not an oren more."

For a long, stressful moment, the elf and Geralt stared at each other. It was simple haggling, and she could feel the tension saturate the air. It hung thickly around them, threatening to break like rainfall from the clouds overhead. She prayed to Melitele, falsely, for salvation from this situation. Barathon could not accept Geralt's bribe. After all, that was what it really was. He was paying someone to take her off his hands.

For a brief moment, she wished she never came across the witcher. Her emotions were crushed because he was trading her like livestock. If animals could feel, was that the way horses and cattle thought? She would leave at the first moment that came available to her. Laelithra could protect herself. It was what she was doing after Viktor died and before Geralt found her. If she had to, she would do it again.

"We can not afford to keep her," the elf replied. He shrugged his thin shoulders. "The Dh'oine will be suspicious that we are traveling with one of their children. You know what they will do. Vattghern, you need to make this worth our own troubles."

"You can take me with you," she said again, "and only pay five-hundred for the horse." Crossing her arms, she continued to glare up at him.

Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, taking Laelithra's comment in stride. "I could do that," he said, "but then I would just take you back to the temple. It's out of my way, and I would miss out on more money than I would lose leaving you here.

Feigning what she thought would be the normal reaction for a child her own age, she stuck out her bottom lip and quivered it. Her gaze softened, pleading him to reconsider. She needed to go with him, and she wondered why he could not see that.

"Stop pouting," Geralt rumbled, and just like that, his attention moved back to Barathon. "You think humans are any less suspicious of the child being with me? She's been pelted with rocks for being with me. You can buy many supplies with the orens I am offering you, or you can get nothing, and I will take her with me if it is too much trouble."

She felt betrayed by his bargaining. If the Arcani attacked them, he was the only one who could protect her. Even though the situation was emotion, it was the only logical conclusion. Geralt was mutated to handle monsters such as Jhaer. The elves were not. They did not know her sick tendencies, nor would they have the courage to face her.

Barathon rubbed his sharply pointed chin. She knew by looking at him that her fate would be sealed. His shoulders pulled back, and he stood at his full height. His wife, the medic, stood silently as her husband decided if they would be graced with a child, a human child.

"We could use the coin," the elf admitted. "While our companions travel to Vizima, we are not going there. In the next town, we will open a tavern. Of course, as loath as I am to admit it, we could use an extra set of hands. Without you, the girl is hard-working?"

Geralt nodded in confirmation. "She will be no less hard working than she has been," he said. "More, likely, as she gets stronger. She'll be able to to help you with anything you might need, and she learns quickly. There is only so much that I am able to teach her."

"Twelve fifty," Barathon said with finality.

Acquiescing to his request, Geralt nodded, again. The two shook hands, then Geralt unhooked a pouch from his belt. He counted out coins and handed them to the elf.

"I'll take that horse," the witcher said, pointing at a chestnut mare. "I will call her Roach. Give me a few moments with Laelithra, and I will be on my way. I've got to find some work to make up that money."

"Take all the time you need," Barathon said, pouring the coins into a pouch of his own.

Turning to Laelithra, he met her look of utter betrayal.

"You can't leave me here," she whimpered. Her voice wavered as fear sank inside her. It circled her being, reminding her of the difference between Geralt and herself. She merely acted brave. In truth, she was a scared little girl. "What if the Arcani come for me again? What if they get me?"

Geralt knelt down, placing a knee in a grassy patch. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a trinket. The medallion spun on the long, silver chain. Blood dotted the face, splattering over the fangs and jeweled eyes. It was Viktor's silver wolf's head amulet.

Remembering the last time she saw it, she shivered. It was more from the emotions running through her than his physical touch. The assassin had taken it from her by force. It was a trophy to him, as was she.

"This will let you know when danger is close," he said, pressing the medallion into her hand and closing her fingers around the snarling face. "If it starts to shake, run. Run as fast as you can, to the temple if you can find the way. I think you will be safe within a town, though. Safer than you would be with me, anyway."

"There's something you need to know," Geralt went on as Laelithra gripped the pendant tightly. "Liruliniel informed me that, due to the injuries you received, you were rendered infertile. You will never be able to have children of your own. I am sorry. The only hope to heal the damage would be a sorceress."

The full weight of the realization didn't strike Laelithra all at once. Being but a child, herself, having children was but a distant possibility, something that she had never considered. Due to her upbringing, she expected that she would never bear children. Still, the revelation that she could not was a startling thing to absorb. Her future was forever marked by her past, and she would never be able to escape it. Her wounds would never heal.

Geralt frowned, handing her another trinket. The pendant shaped like a butterfly was the one of the only things that she treasured. It was left behind when she was abducted. He handed it to her.

"Will I ever see you again?" she asked in earnest.

Geralt nodded. He handed her another trinket, a brilliant sapphire dangling on a golden chain.

She grasped it, feeling awkward with the amount of jewelry in her hands. Laelithra was always a practical child. Favoring practical gifts, she did not know what she would do with them. If the Arcani always sought to capture her, her father's amulet had always protected her. Still, she did not want him to leave.

"I want you to hold onto that for me," he said. "I'll be back for it some day, so keep it with you always."

"I don't want you to go," she sobbed. Laelithra immediately latched onto the witcher, embracing him with all the strength she could muster. Real tears streamed down her face as her little heart broke. The agony of his departure seeped into her soul.

"It's not forever," he assured. Geralt lifted her chin, meeting her sad eyes with resolution. She knew that she could not hope to protest with him if he was determined to move on. "I will come back for you. I'll still be protecting you, too. I will find out all I can about Arcani. If I find anyone associated with them, I will kill them. Keep your chin up, and be strong. Everything will be alright."

That was easy to say, she realized. It was what people said when they had no intention on returning to her. She felt like it would be the last time she would see Geralt.

"I _will_ come back for you," he pledged to her. Yet, time and circumstance would separate the two. He never would keep his promise.


End file.
